


the Hazards of Love

by wtvoc



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: lieutenant duckling AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-25
Updated: 2016-04-29
Packaged: 2018-04-23 06:43:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 62,868
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4866971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wtvoc/pseuds/wtvoc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Killian Jones has loved the princess most of his life--ever since that fateful day when he had come upon a six-year-old girl sobbing about some boys teasing a dog behind a tavern in a village of Misthaven. Taking his hand in hers, he scared the boys away and wondered whether she would ever let go of his firm grasp; he never released her hand, not even when he discovered her father was the King.  From that day forth, the princess was never seen without her friend and constant companion, the young Killian Jones--until years later, when he decided to join her mother's navy. Vexed at the separation, Emma comes to terms with the loss of her much-admired, much-adored friend Killian Jones, and he comes to terms with the notion that he is too common, too low-born to ever earn the right to call her his--even if he will always and forever be hers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this started out as a couple of prompts that have sort of morphed into a much longer, more detailed universe. title and inspiration comes from the entire album "the hazards of love" by the decemberists. i'm playing around with the whole notion of "what would they be like--emma, if she had grown up in the EF with her parents, and killian if he had remained that young, idealistic lieutenant with a brother who did not die."

“Highness,” Killian hissed. “Get out of there! We’re going to get caught!” 

“Lieutenant,” he heard from just inside and somewhere overhead. “Come over here and make me.”  


He looked around in a panic, certain at any moment that someone would come walking down the little-used hallway, praying someone would see the errant Lieutenant wandering in places he oughtn’t, but salvation did not occur. With a heavy sigh, he walked through the doorway and carefully shut the heavy, ancient oak door, sneezing as dust went up his nose.  


He squared his shoulders and began climbing the steps, looking up every once in a while, but the Princess was no longer in sight. He hastened his climb, warily checking for new cracks in the stone as he went higher and higher, jumping over the familiar bad steps and ducking under a fallen beam with ease, old memories from childhood assaulting all his senses in a pleasant bout of nostalgia.

He heard the creak of an old door and smiled, knowing that Emma (he often had to force even his own thoughts to add the “Princess” to her name, but in moments like this when it was only the two of them, he let slip his carefully guarded thoughts) left it open for him, as she always used to.

He stepped out into the lazy sunshine, closing his eyes briefly as a warm, gentle breeze teased the hair he had eternally falling across his brow. When he opened his eyes it was to see a vision before him: Emma, leaning against the parapet and leaning so far her toes lifted from the stone beneath her feet. He smiled and went to join her, feeling a flutter in his chest that had little to do with the vast distance from the ground and much more to do with the person he held dearest in his heart, though she did not return his regard in equal measure.

“I can see her from here,” Emma said softly. Killian did not need to look to know what the princess saw–the Jewel of the Realm, moored but getting ready to depart. He would be leaving for the second time on the morrow, a fact on which he tried not to dwell because it distressed the princess so.  


“She _is_ beautiful,” he murmured. When Emma turned to fix him with one of her brilliant smiles she faltered, her mouth curving downward and her brow following suit.   


“I’m going to miss you, you know,” she told him, and his heart soared at the words. The separation had been quite rough on the both of them–she because she had grown used to his presence, ever since she was six and he was eight and he had seen some boys teasing a dog over in the village, pulling its tail while a little girl cried. He ran into the group of boys, hitting and kicking them until they ran, then the grateful little girl hugged him and pulled on his hand, insisting he bring the dog to her father to fix. That the father of the little girl who seemed intent on holding onto his hand forever was the king hadn’t even stunned Killian at the time; he was simply the handsome and kind man who took a lad to an inn, buying him two sweet rolls and patting his head and inviting him to tea with the family. It was Liam and Mother whose eyes widened when the carriage bearing the royal crest slowed in front of their cottage, and it was Mother who stuttered when a young, blonde princess politely asked if Killian could come up to the castle to play. Killian’s eyes never widened; he simply took the little girl’s hand and from that day hence, followed her everywhere.  


The separation of his overseas duties serving his brother was rough on him for a completely different reason. He, too, was used to her presence, but he despaired of her absence. 

“And I, you, Princess.” He took her hand, his heart surging with sensation– _perhaps today is the day I tell her_ , he thought–but when she smiled tremulously and bit her lip, he lost his verve. She still thought of him as more brother than anything; now was not the time. Perhaps when he becomes more of a man; perhaps when he’s had his moment as a hero, like her father, or her mother–perhaps then she could love him.  


Instead, he lifted her hand to his mouth and in a movement he’d often wished to do but had yet to work up the courage to do so, he brushed his lips across her knuckles. When he looked up, her hand still at his chin, he held his breath. He thought he detected a faint spark of knowing in her eyes–did she finally see? Could she meet his gaze and still not see the love that burned for her, only her?

But her eyes shuttered and a false smile lit her lips, the same smile she used when she was first forced to put on a corset (he could remember his blush when she complained bitterly, tugging at her hips and bodice, his eyes drawn to her every jerk and bounce) and dance with a dignitary’s son who seemed intent on touching her at every opportunity. Killian nearly sighed but settled for dropping her hand. Today was definitely not the day.

Nor would be tomorrow, when he was to rise and leave with the tide, off to defend the kingdom’s interests abroad. No, he would have to wait. He’d be gone much longer this time, and he feared their infrequent letters would be harder to exchange, what with war brewing. But all would be well. He could wait for her forever. 


	2. Chapter 2

Two years and three tours, and still. Killian ought to know by now that his first duty as an officer in her mother’s royal navy was to inform Emma when he was home. She wondered what the hold up was after she watched the Jewel make its way toward Misthaven, her sails open wide and bringing Killian and Liam home. Emma patiently waited for him to come bounding up to the castle proper; she decided to curl up in a far corner of the library, knowing he would eventually find her there, as he often did in the past.

Only he did not come for her. Emma grew decidedly impatient, as impatient as she had been for him to come home in the first place. It wasn’t until much later as she stared at the same page of a much-loved volume of _the Queens of Misthaven_ that she rose from her spot and went in search of Lieutenant Killian Jones in order to give him a piece of her mind. How dare he keep her waiting? Was he not as impatient to see her as she was him?

As she was grumbling and shaking dust off of her overskirt, it occurred to her that something was wrong. A sharp twist in her gut made bile rise up her throat, but she dashed the thought as she hurried down the the cobbled thoroughfare of the castle, her mind fixed on making her way toward the docks. _He is fine_ , she told herself as she jumped astride Boadicea, her mother’s horse, the fastest in the stables. She paid no heed to the mutters as she rode with a demon on her back, quite un-ladylike without a sidesaddle, through the village and toward the sea. 

_He is fine, he is fine_ , she chanted under her breath with each pounding of Boadicea’s hooves. _He is far too stupid to get hurt_ , _he knows I would kill him_. The thought was untenable. Killian, until the last few years, had always been there for her. The only times he ever got hurt were when they were together, invariably because he had the misguided notion that she could not save herself. He’d outgrown that the day she’d convinced him to join her in her first tavern adventure, when she’d dressed in breeches and insisted that she _would_ drink what the men drank. He’d followed her, of course, only by then it was more like he accompanied her, hissing under his breath the entire time about how this would be the event that finally got him barred entrance at the castle gates. 

They’d slunk into one of the nicer taverns dockside (after he’d physically lifted her away from the seediest one, the one frequented by thieves and blackguards and the occasional pirate) and sat in a corner, Killian desperate to keep her hidden, but she wasn’t having it. A wench had recognized her as quality right away, whispering that she’d keep their little secret for a sovereign; Emma had laughed, Killian had given the woman two to keep quiet. Unfortunately for the both of them, the exchange of coin was noticed by another, and before they knew it they were embroiled in a heap of trouble that ended with Emma drawing a dagger to the throat of a man and Killian receiving a cut across his cheek, the scar of which he still bore to this day. 

At any rate, she knew he could handle himself, but if the twisting in her gut meant that he was injured, she was going to kill him with her two bare hands.

When she got to the docks she all but leapt from her mount, tossing the reins at an astonished-looking fishmonger, for it was not every day that the princess of Misthaven was seen there in one of her dresses and alone. She was usually in breeches, and she always had at her side the young, handsome lieutenant, the boy they’d all watched grow from the sweet, young brother of the much-admired Captain Jones into the constant companion of the heiress of Misthaven. Emma ran down the docks, that dark foreboding traveling from her belly and up her throat, the pain growing worse the closer she got to the gangplank. By the time she arrived at the Jewel, a path had been cleared; word had traveled faster than her feet carried her, so when she bounded up the gangway a sailor gave her a short bow before leading her below deck; no standing on ceremony, no eyebrows raised. All knew why their princess was there.

Emma almost did not want to know what had happened for she feared she could not bear it, but she squared her shoulders and raised her chin in the air, just as her mother taught her, facing her (worst) fear. She swallowed once before floating past the sailor who grinned after she’d passed, shaking his head and chuckling.

“Hold _still_ , Brother. Quit your complaining. Give him more rum, sailor,” came the stern, commanding voice of Liam Jones, and Emma immediately felt her apprehension dissipate. Liam sounded amused; Killian must be just fine.

Liam’s back was to her so she simply stood in the doorway of his quarters, waiting to see what had happened before running in with her questions and demands. Over the years Liam had stopped treating her as the princess, but only when not in company. When they were aboard his ship, _her_ ship, he was very much a courteous commander in her mother’s (and one day her) navy.  


“ _Ah_ ,” she heard, and her heart plummeted into her stomach, for she recognized the cry of pain. It was Killian, a very drunk Killian, that much she could discern by the way he breathed sharply through his nose before hiccuping.   


“Easy, Lieutenant,” murmured Liam. He moved away, and Emma breathed in her own sharp breath. Liam had a needle and catgut, and he was making busy with sewing an angry, bloody slash down Killian’s back. Killian’s _shirtless_ back. He tilted his head, his hair in utter disarray, taking a large swig from a flask that she recognized all too well.   


Emma hadn’t seen Killian shirtless since they were children, when they used to sneak away from her governess on hot, lazy summer days. They’d go to the river where they would get down to their underthings and paddle out to the middle, daring each other to go farther and farther. It wasn’t until a passing courtier had seen the young, then-twelve princess laughing and being carried on the bare back of one of the local _common_ boys that they had stopped swimming in the river together. Emma received a long, boring lecture on propriety from the king and queen and Killian received, as he ruefully told her later, a verbal tirade from his freshly-home-from-his-first-tour brother on appropriate activities in which to engage with the heiress of the kingdom or any young lady, for that matter. Emma had scoffed; Killian had somewhat stiffly informed her that Liam was right, that he oughtn’t to have allowed her the informality, that it was hardly appropriate for either of them. The largest fight of their friendship had occurred then, larger than when he told her he was joining the navy. Emma was in tears and trying to understand what was so wrong with swimming with her closest friend, and Killian was patiently trying to make her understand that one day, they wouldn’t be friends, they’d be the princess and the mere commoner, that they ought to start learning to be more formal with one another. 

Emma had gone home in a huff, and it wasn’t until Father came to discover why she had not been at dinner that she’d burst into tears, asking what was so wrong with playing with her friend. Father had looked very sad then, patting her head and telling her that young ladies of the kingdom shouldn’t be caught in a state of undress anywhere, but especially not with a young man, and that was something Killian now understood. Emma was confused by the entire ordeal; _it wasn’t as though we were doing things, Father_ , she had shrugged. _It’s just Killian_. Father looked at her strangely before giving her a soft smile. _Still_ , he’d said. _You could hurt his standing by being so continually informal and favoring him above all others. That’s something for you to think about._ Then he’d left, and she _had_ thought about it. Emma knew what they were all talking about, of course–growing up, ladies and gentlemen and all that. While it was not the case with them, with Emma and Killian, she did acknowledge that appearances were often everything with grown-ups, so she’d squared her shoulders and decided to apologize to her friend. And he’d accepted her apology as he always did–with his crooked grin and an offer to treat her to sticky buns from his favorite inn in the village.

But Emma wasn’t sure sticky buns would fix the relief easing the tension in her body. She found she was angry–angry with him for getting hurt, for putting himself in the position of taking what was an obvious knife or sword to his flesh, rending him nearly in two. She felt a stifled sensation in her chest, as though a horse had sat on her, making it difficult to breathe. She put her hand to her heart and lurched forward, ready to tell the lieutenant a thing or two about putting himself in danger for her mother.

“Emma!” he said happily before holding out the flask. “Missed you, love. Rum?”  


“Lieutenant!” barked Liam, but there were traces of mirth in the sound. “You will not address the princess so informally while, er–half in uniform. Your Highness,” he acknowledged with a quick bow of his head before continuing his work.

It was then that Emma noticed Killian’s bare chest, and she tried not to stare. He had a man’s body now, she knew that–had been quite aware of it for years now–but she had not seen him thus in so long, and never with the sinewy lines of corded muscle in his arms, nor the sharp definition across his abdomen. Then she noticed a scar, one across his ribs, and she felt anger welling anew in the pit of her stomach.

“Lieutenant,” she said through gritted teeth. She pointed at the offending scar, trying to ignore the moles dotting his flesh and the thick, dark hair trailing down toward his navel where it continued a path down to his… Her eyes snapped up to his face. “What the hell is that.”   


Killian looked down where she was pointing, a drunken smirk curling the corner of his mouth when he looked back up to meet her eyes. “Pirate gave me that one. You remember. Told you ‘bout it last time. Knife fight. Your highness.” He grinned fully then; she wanted to smack the grin off his face.

“You told me you won that one.”  


“I did. Not without a souvenir.” He tipped the flask to his mouth and attempted a pull, dismayed when he came up empty. “Any more rum, Cap’n?” He then hissed sharply and Emma saw Liam’s arm jerk back, his fingers still holding the needle. Liam reached out and the sailor next to him put a lethal-looking knife in his palm; he sliced through the catgut and smiled at his handiwork before slapping Killian on the shoulder, the sound of flesh hitting flesh echoing loudly in the dim captain’s quarters.  


“You’ll live to be stupid another day, Brother,” Liam said, coming around and grinning. He then turned to Emma and sketched her a full bow with a friendly smile, reaching out to take her hand and brush his lips across her knuckles. Emma saw Killian bristle at that and she smiled, ignoring his obvious discomfort. Killian always grew a bit proprietary whenever Liam was around, and Emma supposed it had much to do with the fact that Liam had once escorted Emma to one of her mother’s birthday balls years before, when Killian had caught cold and had to stay abed, the only time he was not there for a royal function and at her side. That she sneaked away early and climbed into his room through the bedroom window had not mattered; he’d been grumpier than Leroy, her mother’s majordomo, refusing to allow her to feed him broth or mop his brow.  


“Captain, thank you so much for your service to our kingdom,” she said in a haughty, formal tone, her chin lifting and her eyes dancing. Liam laughed, dropping her hand and slinging an arm around Killian’s (still bare) shoulders.   


“Sorry, Brother.” Liam winced at Killian’s gasp before removing his arm. He leaned back to inspect his handiwork once more and when satisfied righted himself, fixing Emma with an intent stare. “So, what can we do for the Princess of Misthaven? Come to scold my lieutenant here for not immediately informing you of our arrival? I’m afraid the scamp got himself into a spot of trouble a week ago; he reopened the wound while attempting to aid the boatswain with a rather heavy crate. I told him, but he only ever listens to you, and even then, just barely.”  


“Liam. I mean, Captain Jones,” Emma said, dropping the formal tone and looking at him with pleading eyes. “May I have a moment alone with the lieutenant so that I do not embarrass him with my yelling in front of his commanding officer?”  


Liam seemed amused by that but his eyes looked cautious, darting down to Killian’s state of dress to the door and back again.

“Oh, nothing improper will occur, Liam,” Emma said, exasperated. Nothing would, she knew that, but it did not stop her heartbeat from increasing in tempo with the acknowledgement that it _could_. She was nineteen now, and constantly being reminded that it was high time she accept the suit of one of the princes of the neighboring kingdoms. In fact, were she not mistaken, the Jewel’s recent mission had included delivering a certain note to a king about a possible reconciliation between their kingdoms, and she dreaded the possibility that King Randall would have ideas on _how_ to join their kingdoms.  


After a beat, Liam nodded, ushering his amused assistance out of the room. Liam stared pointedly at the door and left it open; Emma waited until she heard his heavy footsteps ascending the stairs before turning to Killian. Her friend, she noticed with dismay, had leaned back on his elbows, which had the unfortunate consequence of displaying his chest fully to her view. She attempted to ignore the flexing of the musculature along his abdomen, the way that curious thatch of chest hair emphasized the lines of his body, her eyes tracing down the muscles to the waistband of his breeches. When she heard him chuckle her eyes snapped up to his face, and in that moment she hated the sparkle she saw in his eyes. The glazed sparkle, for she recognized a drunk Killian Jones when one was laughing at her.

“You’re a reckless idiot,” she told him, stalling for the words she had wanted to say but a moment before, the words she’d forgotten somewhere between Liam’s departure and her perusal of Killian’s body. His _man’s_ body; she supposed she was simply perplexed at the physical evidence that her childhood friend was now a man, a grown man, and a fine specimen at that. She’d always known he was attractive–as the many, many maidens in the kingdom often sighed–but it wasn’t until now that she saw the entire package. Yes, Lieutenant Jones really was as they all said–a charming and kind man, an honorable and dashing and handsome man.  


She tried not to think of that as she remembered what it was she wanted to say to him.

“What have I done now,” he sighed, sitting up and looking around him, presumably for his shirt.   


“You are hurt, Lieutenant.” They both winced at the formality. Emma did not often address him as anything but “Killian” or occasionally “Jones” when it was just the two of them, but their being alone had lessened in frequency over the years, ever since he had taken a commission in her mother’s Navy. At the time she told herself it was because there was never much time, what with the balls and diplomatic dinners and his being gone so often, but something inside her screamed that it was not the case. That she could sneak into his room if she truly wished, or that he could sneak into the castle and into her chambers as they used to when they were children, talking into the night and only separating when the pinkening sky outside the window told them it was time to part before someone came along and scolded them for improper behavior. But now…she knew there was another reason, and she refused to acknowledge it.  


She never did do very well with confronting her own feelings. Killian was the one who pointed out how she felt, risking her anger and her stomping off because he was always, _always_ right. She sensed that in this case, he would not be doing that. No, she’d have to muddle through this one on her own. So she chose to do so with anger.

“You know I don’t like this,” she said, aware that she was being petulant and despairing that she knew no other way.  


“Like what, Highness?” he said, and his voice sounded tired and slightly slurred. It did not escape her that he returned her formality in kind, and she hated it, hated all of it.  


“This–” She waved her hand, indicating his entire form. “–this need of yours to find a hero’s journey. Defend the kingdom, fine. But must you put yourself in danger like this? I hardly think Mother and Father expect you to bleed for them, Killian! You…you are injured! I want to take that pirate’s dagger and use it to slice your belly open. Perhaps then you’ll learn your lesson! What if the wound had festered? What if the dagger had gone deeper? What if you had–” But she refused to finish the sentence. Even the thought of Killian dying made her curl up inside of herself, her heart squeezing painfully at the mere suggestion.   


“Emma, I’ve told you once if I’ve told you a hundred times. I’m a survivor. See?” He leaned forward and took her hand, bringing it to the scar she’d noticed earlier. “Healed. Nothing but a scratch. I’m good in a fight; your father and my brother taught me well.” He took his hand away but she lingered a moment longer, her fingers itching to trace the silver-pink flesh that had healed over, but she was too aware of him, too aware of _herself_ to do so. Touching his skin would _mean_ something, so she did not do it.  


But she did not like his words, for they were perfectly reasonable. She wanted to shout at him that he was important–too important, the most important. To her. That he needed to keep himself safe, because if something happened to him, she did not think she could bear it. He may be a survivor, but she was weak. She would not survive his death.

She turned from him, crossing her arms over her chest. 

“I do not like it,” was all she said. It would have to be enough. She knew she could not prevent him from his fool’s errand of becoming a hero for Misthaven. He had the misguided notion that he was never worthy enough, that his father’s abandonment meant he had to make up for the betrayal in spades, that he would never be able to measure up to his brother. _Idiot boy_ , she had told him that first time he’d voiced his fears, the two of them lying side by side on the floor of her chamber, staring out into the night sky, shoulder to shoulder, heads occasionally touching, but nothing more.  


She suddenly wondered what it would be like to kiss him.

It was a new thought for her, at least in her waking hours, and it was so startling that she almost turned around, but facing him after that errant thought would be impossible, so she didn’t. Instead, she heaved a large sigh and tried to ignore the wondering.

She felt the warmth of his hand on her shoulder and some of her ire melted away; pushing aside the ridiculous notion of kissing her oldest, dearest friend, she turned to face him but was met with his (still bare) chest. She had to look up to meet his eye, and even she was aware that her mouth had dropped a bit. He seemed so much taller than she remembered.

He returned her stare in equal measure, the usual calm sea of his eyes a threatening storm. She became aware of heat emanating from his body and the smell of rum washing over her as he breathed and again, the traitorous thought of kissing him filtered through her mind, rendering her somewhat senseless.

“Emma,” he breathed. He brought a hand up to brush at a lock of hair that had escaped the elaborate upsweep she now wore daily. “I’ve missed you so.”  


And that did it for her. The way he said her name, just as he’d said it a million times before–it wasn’t different, but she was. She heard it now. The way it sounded like the brush of a hand against bare skin, and the way it made her think of picking berries in the spring, the sun-warmed tart-sweet puckering her mouth and making it water.

She realized and acknowledged that Killian Jones was in love with her. And as she did so and looked into his eyes, she saw something simmering there, something frightening and wonderful. She realized it was how he always looked at her when he thought she wasn’t looking back, only he wasn’t hiding it now. Perhaps it was the rum, perhaps it was the pain; perhaps it was just that they had not been in each other’s company in seven months. Whatever the case, Emma saw it now, and she knew she would not be able to unsee it again.

“I missed you, too,” she whispered, wondering if he could feel the warmth of her words against his bare skin. And then she wished he’d get dressed, because she was terribly confused. So she stepped away from him, looking to see where his shirt had fallen.   


“I wished to write more, but there was never a good time.”   


“I know.”  


“I wanted to tell you about the mermaids we saw near Glowerhaven.”  


“Mermaids,” she scoffed, folding her arms and regarding him with an arched brow. He loved to tease her, and she was glad for a return to something more familiar than this…unsettled feeling within her.  


“Aye, Highness. Mermaids. Beautiful ones. I can see why sailors gladly fall to their death for them.” He was smiling indulgently now, his arms crossed to mirror hers. His tongue poked at his cheek and his eyebrows rose pointedly; she realized she had been staring at his chest again.   


Feeling a flush rise to her face and yelling at herself that this was _Killian_ , for the god’s sakes, she lifted her gaze to his in challenge.

“And were you tempted to plunge to your death as well, Lieutenant?”  


“Me? Oh, no, Highness. No, I’ve got my eye on someone already, and she would disembowel me if I died. I have that on good authority.” Emma held her breath; had he really just said that?  


“Aye, you heard me right.” He smirked, and while she wanted to wipe the smirk from his face, she was also amused by it (and thrilled, were she to be completely truthful). Drunk Killian was ever amusing, but this was the first time he had been so…plain. She’d suspected for years that he was attracted to her as a woman, but she hadn’t been ready for that. Was she ready for it now?  


No. Yes. Possibly.

But apparently, her expression held the answer to that question, for he stepped into her space–swaggered, really–and caught her chin with his hand. Tipping her face up, he looked down into her eyes, searching for something. He seemed to find it, for he cocked the corner of his mouth once again, and she found herself following the movement of his mouth.

“Highness, if you continue to look at me like that, I suspect we won’t make it to the bed in time.”  


“Killian, you are drunk.”  


“Aye, lass. That, I am.” He grinned again and she found herself grinning back, even as she pushed him away. Her fingers tingled with the warmth from his flesh, the crispness of the hair on his chest. She stepped away then, stepped away from this new intimacy, afraid that when he sobered up he would be different again, the more formal Killian of the past few years. She decided it was high time she left, knowing Liam would have words with his brother on the propriety of being alone in a room with a woman, much less the crown princess, for such a long time.  


As she walked away, she noticed a bundle of fabric near the door. Crouching down to pick it up, he fired one last salvo; perhaps a warning of the sudden escalation of their friendship to something more.

“I thought of you every day I was gone, Emma.”  


“Good,” she told him over her shoulder. Then, “The Queen expects you at dinner tonight.”  


“Of course.”  


“I’m going to tell her that you got hurt.”  


“You are a mean one,” he sighed. He grinned then, a genuine grin that filled her with triumph, though she did not know why. “But I suppose I rather fancy it when you’re mean to me.”  


“Put a shirt on, Lieutenant.” She turned and tossed the bundle of fabric at him; he caught it neatly with one hand, his eyes sparkling when they met hers.  


“As you wish,” he said solemnly, his eyes full of mirth. And something more.   



	3. Chapter 3

Killian woke with a rather massive headache. To his chagrin, he found himself sprawled out on his brother’s bunk, his throat terribly dry. He sat up with a groan and was somewhat surprised by the bark of laughter that came from across the room. 

“Hair of the dog, Brother?” chuckled Liam. Killian looked over at his brother and commanding officer, the smarmy git seated at his own escritoire and scribbling away. As Killian pulled himself to the edge of the bed, he flexed his arm experimentally, testing the sutures pulling at his skin. There was still pain, but not nearly as much as when he’d first been stitched up, and for that he was grateful. 

“Thanks for the needlework, Brother,” he grunted, wincing as he attempted to stand. Liam grinned at him before rising from his chair, walking over with a mug in his hand. 

“Don’t worry, it’s water.” Killian gratefully took the mug and sipped, the crisp, cool taste of home wonderful on his tongue. “Even if I wished it, I couldn’t give you more rum. You drank the last of our stores to survive my handiwork. Pathetic.” 

“Well, if you weren’t such a butcher, I wouldn’t have had to,” Killian grumbled, smiling into the mug and drinking more of the fine waters of Misthaven. He’d been over much of the known realm now, and nothing was quite as refreshing and good as drinking something that came from home. 

Nothing was as good as being home. 

And, as all of his thoughts of home tended to do, he strayed to thoughts of Emma. Then immediately grimaced. Emma. She had been there. She had seen him getting stitched up. And she had been angry; furious, really, but there was something else, something gnawing at his brain, the hazy memories coming to him in watery bursts of clarity... 

He nearly dropped the mug when he remembered. He had behaved _abominably_ with her. Had he really said something about getting her into bed? Liam would brain him were he to find out. There was nothing Liam detested more than ungentlemanly behavior, and Killian was not terribly fond of it, either. Bad form. Especially when it came to Emma. 

“Brother? Killian? Killian.” It took him a moment to register that his captain was speaking to him, so deep was he focused in trying to remember what it was, exactly, he had said to her. He had to apologize. He had to find her. 

“Yes? Sorry. I was not attending.” 

“I see that.” Liam smiled kindly before a glint of mischief entered his eye. “You are hereby officially granted leave, Lieutenant. I have told her majesty of your heroics, and she wishes to see you immediately. Go to her, and I shall see you later. The Jones Brothers have been invited to dine at the castle.” Killian stood up quickly, the wound on his back reminding him not to be so hasty, but he needed to get to Emma. He wasn’t sure what he would say, but the need to behold her face with sober eyes was far too strong. 

“Oh, and Killian.” He stopped short and pivoted around to face his commander. “Remember yourself with her.” 

“I am ever the gentleman, Liam. I’ve always treated the queen with respect.” 

“Not the ‘her’ I meant, Brother.” 

Killian fixed his brother with a withering stare, turning and fleeing before a flush could overtake his face. He’d known to whom Liam referred, of course, but years and years of that exact exchange never did sit well with him. 

Of course he would remember himself. He could hardly forget. She was the princess, and who was he? 

No one of real consequence. A man stupid enough to allow a pirate to nearly take his life--two separate times, no less. At least he’d gotten revenge on the second blackguard, preventing the Jewel from being captured. He needed to remember to thank Emma for the extra practice with swords, for he was quite certain all of that muscle memory came in handy during the battle. Without it, he might have died. Who was he? A man stupidly in love with a woman far above him in station, consequence, and so many other things he did not care to enumerate. He owed so much to her, and now he owed her his life, for without her insistence on his taking lessons in swords with her father-- the greatest swordsman in all the realms-- he may now be dead, buried at sea without ever having told her of his love. 

He could practically feel her skinny little arms around him, correcting his posture and belittling his thrusts as they practiced, her father laughing heartily and clapping with delight the first time Killian had actually disarmed her. And she had stomped off, that petulant tilt in her chin filling him with satisfaction when she declared _anyone_ could learn to wield a sword, but it took a real warrior to use it when it counted. 

He supposed he could count himself a real warrior, then. He wondered if she would do the same. 

He made his way off the Jewel and headed toward the Jones cottage, knowing all its contents would be safe despite its occupants’ absence these past seven months. The townsfolk had grown rather proud of the Jones brothers, men clapping their shoulders and women smiling whenever they passed. Killian supposed it helped that everyone was quite aware that Liam had the ear of the queen and that Killian was the closest thing to a brother that their princess had. 

He sighed at his own thought. He didn’t feel very brotherly toward her. Never had, really. She’d captured his heart long ago when she put her hand in his, allowing him to swipe away her tears with his dirty little thumb and asking him to help the little dog cowering in the alleyway. He supposed that’s why it was so difficult for him to remember that she was not his to adore-- he’d loved her before he knew she was the princess. He had to remind himself constantly that Emma Nolan would one day rule the kingdom, and she would need to have a political ally at her side as her king. Not the son of a laundress, officer in her navy or no. 

Killian barely spared a glance at his neat, tidy room, rushing to change into fresh breeches, lawn shirt, waistcoat, and boots. He forewent a coat, knowing Liam would have words with him on appropriate attire and also knowing that Emma would not give a damn. She’d be far too angry with him to even notice, he wagered. 

When his wound had reopened, he’d winced for many reasons, the worst being that he knew Emma would be waiting for him to come to her, to see that he was safe. She may not love him in that way, but he knew she cared about him desperately. He hated disappointing her. He would have to make it up to her somehow. 

He walked quickly over to the castle, enjoying the brisk sunshine. It was something about home that he could never get at sea—the solidity of the ground beneath his feet, the winding path leading him to Emma. He was greeted with a cheerful grin and wave from one of the queen's guard as he walked through. He started to turn down the hallway that led to the stairs to Emma's room, but a mass of compact solidity suddenly stepped into his path. 

“Hello, Leroy,” Killian sighed wearily. The Queen's man was forever an obstacle and had been for thirteen years; Killian was unsure he'd ever win the man over, but he supposed it mattered not. 

“Where do you think you're going, sailor?” the man grunted. 

“You know very well where I'm headed, Leroy,” Killian laughed. “May I pass?” 

“I think not. The princess said she wasn't to be disturbed. By anyone.” Leroy crossed his arms and postured menacingly; Killian had to suppress the urge to laugh. He knew Leroy was more gruff than tough, but he also knew the man's loyalty to both the queen and everything she loved, especially her daughter, was both unfailing and unflinching. Something the two of them had in common. He supposed that was why the majordomo never gave Killian _too_ much hassle. 

“Leroy, I must explain something to her,” Killian tried, knowing it would be futile but going forth nonetheless. And of course, he was correct; Leroy shifted his stance but kept the stubborn tilt of his chin pointed toward Killian's face. He flexed his jaw a few times before grinning. 

“No can do, brother. Besides, the Queen asked me to bring you before her the moment you set foot in the castle, so. Off we go.” Leroy uncrossed his arms and stepped forward, and Killian had no recourse to do but comply. 

He found himself in one of the queen's private sitting rooms, the one accessible from the throne room. Killian sighed in relief as Leroy led him across the empty hall, past the actual thrones, and into a side door. He knew he'd be in real trouble had the queen decided to see him sitting in her elaborate throne; the woman was as sweet as fresh pie in the dead of winter, but she was also intimidating when she chose to be. That she wished to see him in a more informal setting was a good sign. He wondered what it was she wished to speak to him about; had he done something wrong? Was she, too, angry about his reckless behavior? Had Emma finally told her to stop allowing him free reign of the castle? 

“Killian!” Queen Snow's voice trilled the moment he walked into the room. “Leroy, you may go.” Leroy grunted and curled his lip but did as asked, not before fixing Killian with a glare. The man closed the door behind him, leaving Killian quite alone with the mother of the woman he loved. 

“I am glad to see you safe and well,” she said, grinning and coming forward to embrace him as a mother. He closed his eyes and breathed her in; she always smelled of lemons and clover to him, the simple soap she favored scenting her hair and clothing. When they'd docked in Glowerhaven months before, he'd passed a field of lemongrass, and the fragrance wafting through the air had given him the first case of homesickness not related to Emma in three years' worth of being away. 

The Queen was a kind and fair ruler; Snow White had been a substitute mother for him after his had passed when he was but eleven years of age. She insisted on tending to his every scraped knee and bruise herself, perhaps because her daughter was the cause of nearly all of the injuries. She made sure the Jones boys always had enough to eat, and she was the one who clucked over the deplorable state of his cuffs and shoes. He supposed he was rather like the son she'd never had, and he loved her very much. 

When he pulled back to place a gentle kiss on the back of her hand, he was somewhat perplexed to see tears in her eyes despite the heartbreakingly sweet smile pulling on her lips. His brow furrowed; what had he done now? 

“It's wonderful to see you, your Majesty.” He sketched her a perfectly correct and formal bow, hearing Liam chiding him in the back of his mind. “You look well. I hope this isn't about my injury. 'Twas nothing, I assure you.” 

“Injury?” She swiped at her eyes with the palm of her hand, a confused frown replacing the soft smile. “You were injured?” _Blast_. 

“Er, as I said. It was nothing.” 

“Killian Jones, I thought I made it clear when you were commissioned that you were to keep yourself free from injury. No stupidity. Were you stupid?” She cocked her head to the side, her stern, queenly countenance in place. If he had not known her for nigh on fifteen years, he wouldn't have seen the twinkle in her eyes, but he did know her well. He grinned and took her hand, giving it a squeeze. 

“Yes, I'm always that. But it was pirates, madam. I could hardly let them take the crowning jewel in your armada.” 

“I know. Captain Jones already regaled me with tales of your bravery. I'm terribly proud of you, Killian, and grateful as well. So is the King. We all are.” 

“The Princess?” he asked, skepticism coloring his tone and lifting his one eyebrow sky-high. 

“Well. You know my daughter,” she sighed. “She will get over her ire. I suspect right now she's merely angry that you got hurt. The thought terrifies her, that something will happen to you. She simply isn't the same when you're gone, you know.” Her voice had softened as she spoke, and he squirmed under the pressure of her clear, steady gaze. He suspected the queen knew of how he felt for her daughter, but it was not a conversation he wished to have. He was well aware that he would never be considered for her suit, that princesses did not marry commoners, no matter the fondness the queen and king felt for him. He suspected the queen did not wish to let him down due to that fondness, so he spared her the conversation entirely. 

“Aye, she's never able to stay angry with me for long,” he said, the false brightness in his tone making him cringe inwardly. 

“Well. Emma aside, that's not why I wished to speak with you. I want to throw you a ball.” 

“Come again, Majesty?” 

“A ball. Liam told us of how your bravery single-handedly saved not just the battle, but the entire armada. And that you killed one of the most dastardly pirates to sail the realms. Killian,” she said, taking his hand and pressing it between her palms. “I knew you would make an excellent officer. I told David time and time again that you would surpass everyone's expectations, but to do it so early in your career is truly astonishing. I couldn't be prouder if you were my own child.” 

He could feel the blood prickling under his cheeks; the queen was always kind to him, but she was rarely so effusive with her praise. He wished it were appropriate to hug her without restraint, but he settled for returning the lovely smile curving her face. 

“At any rate, I'm having David put together a ball in three days' time. He's somewhat exasperated with me for the short notice, but I think he'll be just fine. He does so love a good party. 

“Anyway, off with you. I know Emma said she doesn't want to talk to anyone right now, but I'm certain a man as stalwart and determined as you can find a way.” She winked at him and then waved him off, the mischievous grin that reminded him of Emma daring him to climb higher and higher up trees for the warmest of the sun-drenched peaches lighting her face. 

He knew that the queen was well aware of his propensity for climbing through her daughter's window, but he had to wonder about her actually encouraging it now that he and Emma were no longer children. Perhaps the queen wasn't so against him as a potential suitor after all? Or was it just that she trusted him to be honorable so much that she didn't worry about it? 

He decided he didn't care. She was right. 

When he got to the side of the castle where Emma's room was located, he did not wish to look up, afraid that the window would be shut, but it wasn't. He smiled in triumph. The only time Emma had actually shut her window was when they'd had that terrible fight over their inappropriate attire while swimming. Even when it was storming she kept it open, simply laying down some cloth in front of it so that he'd not slip upon climbing through. He rolled up his sleeves, spat onto his palms and rubbed them together, then got to climbing. 

The window was not barred, but there _was_ a small stool under it, making him stumble when he dropped down into her chamber. 

“So, still angry, then?” 

“Go away.” 

“I spoke with your mother.” 

“Oh? I do that every day.” 

“I'd like to apologize, Emma.” 

“What for? You owe me nothing.” 

He chose to ignore that. 

“You left your window open.” 

“Well, you're gone so much now that I forgot to close it.” 

“Emma,” he sighed, leaning back against the wall. “I do not wish to fight.” 

“Funny, that slash across your back tells me otherwise.” 

“Emma.” 

“Lieutenant.” 

“I'll just let myself out, then. Your highness.” He pushed away from the wall and turned abruptly, righting the step stool with his instep and grasping the wooden windowsill with both hands. 

“I was afraid for you,” she whispered, and that made him pause. He bowed his head wearily, the weight of that very thing bringing his head down. Emma was so strong; she had few weaknesses, and he knew that he was one of them. She feared abandonment more than anything, an odd consequence of living a terribly charmed life, the feeling that all would be ripped from her without warning. And every morning when he awoke, he thought of that, that Emma's love for him, while depressingly platonic, was a liability to her. It was why he took extra care when serving for the kingdom to keep himself safe. He knew she would not take his death well. 

“I know, Emma.” 

“I do not like it that you're off fighting.” 

“So you've said,” he smiled, but it was a sad smile. He would do anything for her, and she knew it. It was why she never asked him not to take the commission in the first place. She knew he wouldn't have done it had she asked. And he, in turn, knew that she did not do so because she understood how important it was for him to become his own man. 

After a moment of silence, he turned around fully and walked over to the chair by her writing table, lifting his knee and straddling the delicate thing backward, his forearms resting atop one another across the chair back. Emma was sitting on the opposite side of her room on the floor next to her bed. Her back was to the wall and her knees were drawn up tight, her arms wrapped around them, a position she took whenever upset. 

“Do you want to hear about it, or would that offend thy highness's delicate sensibilities?” 

“Oh, do shut up,” she said, but she was smiling now. She rested the side of her face across her arms and the gesture was so familiar that he felt a tension ease in his abdomen. “You can tell me exactly why it is that Father was asking about whether you would wish to be addressed formally, with your middle name or without?” 

“Ah, the ball.” 

“A ball?” She raised an eyebrow, the one not pressed into her hands. “There's to be a ball?” 

“In honor of me.” 

That made her lift her head. “Really?” She seemed excited, like the Emma he remembered before he left her. Younger. Then her face fell slightly. “Oh. Because of your back.” 

“Yes, Emma. The Queen of Misthaven is going to the great expense of honoring a commoner with the privilege of having a ball in his name because of how strapping his back is.” 

“Arse.” 

“Aye.” He grinned. He'd missed this. Their talks late into the night. It was one of the hardest things about being at sea; the nights were very long with no one to talk to but a bunch of salty sea dogs, and none of those were as pretty as the woman before him. Except, perhaps, his brother, but Liam was also not Emma. 

“Killian.” Her face fell and she started to play with the lace on the cuff of her dress. “Please tell me you aren't being reckless.” 

“We were outnumbered, Emma.” 

“Ah, if only you knew what a comfort you are.” 

“I did not perish, in case it had escaped your notice.” 

“I do not wish to talk of it anymore. Just do not go and die, please. It would break father's heart.” 

“And Leroy's.” 

“He would not dance a jig at your funeral, most likely.” 

“He would sing.” 

“Yes, well. He doesn't understand why mother never put thorny vines under my window.” 

“Neither do I.” She looked at him with exasperation before swiftly changing the subject, as they often tended to do. Liam said it was like a watching a whirlwind when the two of them talked. 

“Do you recall saying inappropriate things to me while drunk a few hours ago?” 

He had to swallow before proceeding. 

“Aye.” 

“Is that how you are when drinking now, then? You turn into a sailor coming to shore after a long voyage?” 

“Well, I am a sailor coming to shore after a long voyage.” 

“A gentleman would not say such things to a lady.” 

He smiled tightly, knowing she was merely jesting to alleviate her discomfort, but oh! If she only knew how much that stung. 

“I'm no gentleman, Emma.” 

“Father says it takes more than noble birth to make a man a gentleman.” It was something she'd said often enough, and while he'd stopped arguing ages ago, it still sat on him heavily: he was _not_ born a gentleman. He was not meant for her. 

“That is the reason I came to apologize. I should not have spoken to you so...freely.” 

“Freely?” She raised her eyebrow again at that. “Killian. You. You--” 

“I know.” He felt a flush rise to his cheeks. “I'm afraid the men with whom I keep company are a bit...uncouth.” 

“Uncouth.” She chuckled at that before rising gracefully, her back straight and regal. Killian had learned years ago to look at her without really seeing her, for his heart swelled with such sensation whenever he did that he was afraid it would burst out his mouth, having him making declarations neither of them were ready to hear aloud. He was only lucky he did not say so while filled with rum. 

But in unguarded moments like this, especially with their frequency diminished in the last three years, he allowed himself free rein to see her. How there were still traces of the chubby-cheeked, freckled girl in the delicate beauty sitting before him. She was dressed plainly in a simple gown—unadorned but elegant, the lines clean, the tailoring impeccable. She had fixed her hair from earlier and it was back in an intricate smattering of curls and braids, framing her face wonderfully. She had run a bit wild as a young girl, the long braids flying free from their restraints as they made it their business to climb every tree and explore every empty building in the countryside. Her dresses were frequently torn, when she wore them. She often changed into breeches traded for from obliging stable boys, tucking her glorious golden locks into a cap. They always thought they were so brilliant, hiding her as a peasant boy so that she might roam about freely, but when he looked back with an adult's eyes, he could remember knowing twinkles in the eyes of the milkmaids who gave them sips from their pails and the old men who sat about playing cards and lawn bowling, allowing the “young scamps” to try their hand at knocking their boules away. Killian could see now that everyone in the kingdom was quite aware that the small boy tagging at his heels was, indeed, the princess, and it was because they all knew that Killian Jones was never seen anywhere without his constant companion, the Princess of Misthaven. 

“I still cannot believe you got hurt, Killian. Were you daydreaming again?” 

Her amused voice brought him out of fond remembrances of an idle youth. He smiled softly and was glad to see the return of her real smile when he looked over at her. 

“I do not daydream, highness.” 

“You do. You are always staring without looking.” He ignored that and asked a question of his own. 

“So, we were sent as envoy to see Rumplestiltskin.” He felt slight guilt when her back stiffened and she grimaced. 

“Oh?” 

“Emma, you did not tell me you fancied the son of the Dark One.” 

“Stop.” 

He stepped forward, leaning until his elbow rested on the edge of her bed, his legs crossed and straight out so that he appeared somewhat insouciant. Had anyone walked in, he would have been reprimanded for standing above the princess thus; well, he would have been reprimanded for being in her chambers in the first place. 

“He is not an unhandsome man.” 

“Unhandsome is not a word.” 

“Do not change the subject.” 

“Killian, don't. You know how my parents are. They will not force me to marry, but they are certainly enthusiastic on the subject.” 

He suddenly wished he had not brought it up. He knew one day that she would marry, he knew that; an argument erupted within him every time he thought on it. He still had not decided what would be the best course of action: flee the kingdom the day of her wedding, or betray her by not being there on such an important day in her life. 

“Perhaps it's time for you to start considering it,” he said softly, looking down at the counterpane beneath him and worrying at a bit of thread. He had many duties in life now; to his brother, to the crown, to the two people who always treated him as a son that also happened to be the king and queen; none of them were as important, of course, as his duty to Emma, his princess. The woman who would one day be queen. He knew he would have to support her, for there were trying times ahead what with war on the horizon. He knew that one day she would rule, and in all likelihood, he would be at her side, advising her on the best course of action in many a situation. 

Like marriage. Perhaps he ought to start now. 

Emma looked at him as though he'd grown another head. 

“Are you suggesting I marry the son of the Dark One?” she asked, her eyes wide with incredulity. 

“No,” he said quickly. “Merely that...you might want to become inured to the idea of matrimony.” 

“I will not marry for convenience or land, Killian.” 

“Love is for children, Emma.” _And me._

“Did that pirate, perhaps, take a dagger to your brain?” 

“You might not hate it, you know.” 

“Marriage?” She sounded so full of disbelief, like she'd never considered it before. He supposed she hadn't. She certainly hadn't spoken of it before he'd received his commission; he simply assumed that much like many young ladies, she'd grow to think on it. He was rather glad to be proven wrong. Emma was not like _any_ young ladies. 

“If the state of matrimony is so great, why don't you go and get married?” 

And there it was. She voiced it, the dream he held locked away in his heart. Unbidden, unwanted images of standing at an altar, medals shining on his chest as a woman so beautiful he could not help the size of his grin approached him down the aisle of the Misthaven Cathedral. Birds chirping. An organ singing to the gods. Liam bursting with pride, the king and queen smiling softly at each other. 

He had to clear his throat and the images away before speaking. “Me?” His laugh lacked mirth as he smiled. “The sea on a good day and the love of a good ship is the only thing I need.” 

“Right,” she scoffed. She rose from the wall and hopped up onto the bed next to him, his elbow dipping down with the weight of her pressing into the mattress. She poked him in the forearm, and there was a teasing note in her voice as she spoke. 

“One of these days, you'll need a woman to civilize you.” 

“Is 'civilize' a euphemism, then?” 

“Stop that.” She swatted his arm and laughed, the unrestrained sound filling him with delight. “That, too.” 

It was on the tip of his tongue to make another borderline-inappropriate comment, but the thought was interrupted by the sound of steps outside her door—heavy, plodding, purposeful steps—the kind that told them it was one of her parents, and they knew that he was in there, giving him time to escape so they did not have to pretend to disapprove. 

“Ah, that's me leaving, then,” he said lightly. He stood quickly, laughing with the loss of his counter ballast when Emma stumbled off the bed. 

“I'll see you at dinner,” he said over his shoulder as he lifted a leg over the window sill. Her bright smile—the Emma of old—filled him with light as he began his descent. 

* * *

Being invited to dine at a formal affair in the castle was considered a great honor. Killian could remember the first time King David had asked him, his majesty's countenance soft even as he gruffly asked Killian to join them in greeting a dignitary from Brentsworth. The invitation was, ostensibly, for the newly commissioned Lieutenant Liam Jones, but both Jones boys knew the invite had happened because of Killian's friendship with the princess. While neither Jones brother sat near the head of the table, Killian was seated in a place of near-honor, just across and over one from Emma. They spent the entire meal making faces at one another, Emma's expression turning serene whenever she was addressed directly by another. They were still children then, Emma barely wearing her hair up, and Killian had had his neck scrubbed within an inch of his life by a very nervous Liam. He could remember having to tease away Liam's nerves, that they were just David and Snow White and Emma, but Liam had squeezed his shoulders a little too harshly, his voice tight as he reminded Killian for the hundredth time that they were hardly _just_ anything, they were royalty. 

As they got ready together for this particular evening, however, it was Killian who was nervous, and Liam who was attempting to mock him out of fumbling with the buttons of his dinner dress blues. 

“Why so nervous, brother? It's just Emma. Or is she still furious with you?” 

“Stifle it, Brother.” 

“All right.” Liam lifted one corner of his mouth in a sly grin before turning back to their one mirror, his hands making quick work of his starched scarf. He eyed Killian from his reflection before saying, “So, are you planning on telling her this evening?” Killian should have paid more attention to the nonchalant tone of his brother's voice, but he was far too busy making sure his cuffs were in order before struggling into his high-shined boots. 

“Tell her what.” 

“That you're desperately in love with her.” 

Killian tripped on his own foot, twisting his ankle as he stumbled to the floor. 

“I don't know to what you refer.” 

“Uh huh.” Liam turned and swept his palms down the placket of his coat before reaching down to aid his brother. Killian ignored the proffered hand and stood, slipping into his boot with ease this time and straightening next to Liam. They stood nearly eye-to-eye with Liam a mere inch-and-a-half taller, and Killian fixed him with a beady eye. 

He opened his mouth but did not know what to say. It was useless to deny his brother's words, and he wondered if it were so painfully obvious to anyone else just how desperately in love he was with the most unattainable woman in the entire kingdom. He decided on saying nothing, closing his mouth and turning away. 

“Be brave, Brother. Emma is remarkably obtuse about certain things--” 

Killian rounded on him. “She is one of the most observant people I know! Much smarter than you or me.” 

“I know that,” Liam grinned, clapping Killian on the shoulder. “But she is blind when it comes to you; always has been. She loves you far too well to think about things like being in love with you. I think it will take something much worse than a flesh wound across your back to make her realize it.” 

“Well, when I die, make sure you point that out to her at my funeral,” Killian retorted, feeling the knot at his neck beginning to impede his breathing. He went to loosen it but was stayed by the steady hand of Liam at his elbow. Liam turned him to face the mirror and when he saw their reflection there looking resplendent in their finery (if he did say so himself), he wondered whether Mother would be proud. 

“We are handsome fellows, are we not?” 

“We Joneses are a dashing bunch.” 

“Let's to the castle, then.” 

“Aye.” 

“I'm telling Emma you dream of her every night.” 

“Liam!” 

But his arsehole of a brother was already out the door, laughing jovially into the warm balmy night. 

* * *

At the castle, Killian was seated in a place of honor, right to the queen's right and next to a Duchess from Arendelle, the mother of a funny little man in glasses that was continually leaning over to whisper in Emma's ear. She was seated directly across from Killian and kept shooting him looks which he pointedly ignored in favor of answering her mother's questions about his travels. Liam was on Emma's other side, and somewhere after the _viandes_ course, she decided to ignore Killian and kept up a whispered conversation with his brother the entire rest of the meal. Killian worried they spoke of him, especially whenever Emma had to cover her mouth to stifle her laughter, and he had to suppress the urge to lob a dinner roll or his navy-issue stiletto at his elder brother's head. 

“Those two seem rather cozy,” came the voice of Snow White. Reluctantly, Killian turned toward his queen, giving her a tight smile and an eyebrow of acknowledgment. 

“Aye. I fear they are plotting.” 

“It's far scarier when it's you two doing the plotting.” 

“Which two, Majesty?” 

“Touché, Lieutenant.” The Queen smiled at him, the sly, private smile she rarely showed in public. “Let's stop the plotting before my castle is wrecked, shall we?” She winked at him, the same wink that had given her his undying loyalty back when he was ten and Emma had accidentally run into a 400-year-old antique with Killian claiming the blame. “'Twas an ugly vase,” the queen had stated, winking and declaring that Killian Jones ought to be given a medal for ridding the castle of the hideous thing. She then bussed his temple and whispered that next time he ought to give her daughter the opportunity to tell the truth, but she appreciated his loyalty, she would never forget it, and she was looking forward to meeting the gentleman he would grow to be. Then she stood up and clapped twice, telling the suddenly appeared Leroy to have the steward remove the broken bits of ceramic and to give the heroic Killian Jones the last shortcake that she'd had Cook save just for him. The same twinkle she'd had in her eye lit her face as she turned toward Emma and Liam, declaring to the table in general, “Do tell us of your brother's latest heroics, Captain Jones.” 

“Hear, hear!” came the king's voice down the table. Killian looked over at Emma, a bit fearful of how she'd receive the news and ignoring the heads swiveling toward their end of the table. Emma pursed her lips and dropped her eyes to her lap, like she was bracing for impact. He felt a tingle creep up his spine and pasted on a false smile, not wanting to relive the story yet again. 

Liam's eyes met Killian's, a tight set to his eyes that Killian was quite certain mirrored his own. The truth was, the battle had been horrific. Sailors were dirty creatures, but pirates were somewhat worse. Not in their personal hygiene, but in their relentless manner. Liam had been knocked senseless during the attack; Killian had seen him go down, could still feel the way his heart plummeted to the bottom of the ocean as he watched his brother fall: his stalwart, honorable brother, felled by the rusty blade of a sneering pirate. He'd thought him dead. It was untenable. 

That was what had driven Killian into a froth, pulling out his cutlass and cutting a swath through a dense fog of blood, pirates, and disgusting curses until it was just he and one man, the one they'd been warned of: Blackbeard, the sneeringest pirate of all, and the one who'd bested his brother-Captain. 

Killian had been aware that there were still minor skirmishes being fought on the Jewel, but he only had eyes for the blackguard who'd dare kill the best man he ever knew. His sword sang like never before; his mind went empty save for ghostly impressions of a golden girl at his side, her arm synced with his as he arced his blade, a silent dance with a worthy woman at his side and a villainous bastard before him. 

He could not remember exactly how he got the cut; only that he had tripped on a body and that he had Emma's voice chiding him in his ear for being a dunce, a memory from some of their first lessons together with her father. When he righted himself he felt a sharp sting blossom across his back; without further thought, he stepped forward and pivoted on both heels, his arm swinging up and around in a swift and neat movement. Blackbeard fell with a sneer and a begruding nod of respect, and that was that. Killian stumbled before straightening, feeling the wetness at his back and sending a brief prayer to the gods to keep Emma safe, to send her true love, and thanks that he got the fucking pirate who'd killed his brother before dying. 

Only Liam's face hovered over his minutes later, clutching his arm with one hand and shaking Killian with the other. “Brother, Brother!” came Liam's desperate cries. “No. No no no no no no. Help! Help!” Killian had never heard his brother so desperate before, sounding like he was going to actually cry. Killian smiled then, reaching up and crying out at the pain on his back. The rest of the day was a blur, for it had taken much rum and teeth gnashing before he was able to remember anything with clarity. 

“Ah, your majesty. I do not think it appropriate to regale you with tales of blood spilled. Let us just say that my brother here proved himself a worthy officer and a good man in a fight, and allow me to leave it at that.” Liam looked over at Killian and nodded seriously, and Killian tipped his head in response. He felt the queen's hand squeeze his forearm, and when he looked over, she was beaming at him with a furious sort of pride. It filled him with warmth; both at her approval and at the looks he was receiving from the entire table. He supposed the serious tone of Liam's voice had much impressed everyone, for he was not often on the receiving end of such admiration from the nobility. 

The only person whose opinion really mattered to him was another thing entirely. When he looked over at Emma she was still looking at her lap, and were he not mistaken, she was wringing her hands. She did not often fret, but it seemed that the subject of his heroics did not sit well with her. 

_She is still upset with me_ . He chastised himself for not insisting on telling her himself, and resolved to make it up to her later. 

“Do not worry so, Majesty,” Liam was saying. Killian turned away from studying Emma to attend to the continued conversation. “We found some lovely lasses to comfort him once we reached port in Glowerhaven. I assure you, he forgot all about the stitches in his back.” There was tittering from around the table and some masculine guffawing, and Killian felt himself flush. He did not remember much about that, either; it was certainly something he was not prepared to speak of at dinner, and he resolved to brain his brother later on, he of the repeated “appropriate and inappropriate” lectures. 

He felt Emma's gaze on his face, and when he turned back to face her, her anger had shifted into something new. There was a hard look in her eye, and before he could so much as give her a questioning glance, the king was clinking his glass with his dinner fork. 

“A toast. To Misthaven's hero, Killian Jones!” 

Killian had always thought that when a moment such as this came, he would be filled with pride and light and laughter, but it was all dulled somehow, and he knew it was because Emma was the only one who did not raise her glass in praise. She merely swirled her wine around in her goblet and drank from it deeply, her eyes not seeking his the rest of the evening. 

* * *

Days later, and Emma had managed to avoid him at every turn. Killian found himself in his formal dress uniform, the jacket cut in a narrower fashion so that his shoulders seemed broader, the tails somewhat longer to allow for swishing about, he supposed. Liam had gone ahead of him, claiming there was a lass he wished to secure a dance with, but they both knew that Killian's time would be taken by Emma, as ever it was, especially when it came to royal functions. Since the first royal ball to which he had been invited, he'd spent his time in the antechamber of her dressing room, the door cracked open as she got ready. She would shout at him, continuing whichever argument in which they'd been engaged as her hair was pinned, her corset lacings pulled, her petticoats layered. And he would slouch in a chair, impatiently waiting for her to be put together as a young lady ought and impatient to see the results. She would flounce into the room, some lady's maid or other trailing after and begging the princess to be still one more second, presenting herself to him with a haughty tilt of her head. “Well?” she would demand, every time, because he would pretend to have fallen asleep or to be absorbed in whatever book she had lying about. Every time he would tell her she was passable, and every time she would huff and cross her arms until he laughed, utterly unable to hold it in anymore. 

He could barely hold in his emotions around her. It only grew worse over the years. The last ball before he left for his first tour, their pre-function ritual was a somber thing, indeed. He wondered whether it would be the same this time around. 

When he knocked on the door leading to her suite of rooms, much confused by its being closed in the first place, it was Leroy whose eye appeared in the crack as it opened. Killian's heart sank. She was still angry. 

“What do you want?” the gruff little man grunted. “The Princess is getting dressed. Go back downstairs.” He slammed the door, and Killian found himself quite alone in the hallway. 

He trudged back down, his fingertips dragging down the highly polished wood of the rail. The castle was positively shining with polish and the soft glow of candles everywhere; it seemed that the king and queen had outdone themselves. There were all sorts of people invited to the affair, even some of the townsfolk, the ones who knew the Jones brothers best, along with the usual noblepersons and visiting diplomats. There were beautiful women in all number of fabrics and colors, their jeweled magnificence enhanced by their smiles and sneers alike. He saw many officers representing the Admiralty, their dark blue frock coats with gleaming brass buttons rather distinct from the more somber coats of the nobility. 

He skirted off to the side, looking for his brother or their majesties, knowing that as the guest of honor he must wait to be announced. He felt anticipation go through him; he knew that Emma would be present at her parents' side to formally greet him, and he wanted to gauge exactly how angry she was before securing a waltz for the evening. 

The thought of dancing with her filled him with warmth. He found he could not wait, but he dreaded her ire. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, may we present our guest of honor for the evening,” came the king's voice. Killian pulled himself from his morose thoughts and looked toward King David, who beamed at him with a genuine smile. “We've known Killian Jones since he was a young boy. The first time I met him, he'd saved a dog from being teased by no less than five boys, some of them much bigger than he. I'm quite proud to say that he is ever the same young lad, jumping into danger to protect what needs protecting; in this case, our kingdom.” There was a smattering of applause and a few whoops from some of the naval officers who'd gotten an early start on the celebrating. Killian felt warmth bloom on his face and a squeeze at his elbow; when he looked down, Emma was there. She would not look at him, but she was still there, pinching him. “We wish to honor this brave young man without whom we may have lost the crowning jewel in our armada. Three cheers for _Commander_ Jones.” 

Killian stiffened. _I do not deserve this._

He knew the only reason he'd been promoted was because of the fondness the royal family had for him and still, he flushed with pleasure. He would endeavour to deserve it, and to deserve her. When he looked down to fix Emma with a shared smile, she had gone. 

Before the dancing started, Killian had to endure hearty congratulations and his hand being pumped vigorously by grinning old men and young bucks alike. He observed that the previously surreptitious glances from well-born ladies, married and unmarried alike, were now blatant assessments, their eyes lingering and inviting. He did not know what to do with himself. He wanted to find Emma to see how she felt about all of this, then perhaps he, himself, would know how to feel. 

But he could not find her. 

He kept thinking he saw glimpses of her hair or the glimmering, watered silver silk dress she was wearing, but the moment he would turn his head, she would be gone. 

It wasn't until the sweet sound of violins filled the room did he see her. Emma's mother appeared at his side with her kind smile, looking at him expectantly. Then the beginning strains of a minuet started to play, and Killian bowed low before his queen, straightening and holding out his hand. They were to lead the dance; it was his duty as the guest of honor, and at any rate, it was a pleasure. He'd only danced with her once before, at her silver jubilee, the one that marked her twenty-fifth year as queen. He and Emma had spent hours and hours with her dancing master so he would acquit himself without stumbling, both she and the sour-pussed little man insulting his every clumsy move until he got it “passably well.” 

Fortunately for him, he danced as he fenced, and he swept the queen toward the center of the ballroom, giving her a short bow as he led her to her place at the head of the set. 

The King followed on their heels, leading his daughter to stand next to her mother. Killian attempted to keep his focus on his partner, but the stiff set of Emma's jaw distracted him so. He could not believe she would hold such a grudge; this was far worse than any of their previous quarrels. 

As he danced with the Queen, his thoughts were focused on how he could get Emma to stop being so angry with him. As he flowed through the movements of the dance automatically, his feet sure and his partner making it easy for him to gather wool, he would look forward to every turn that brought Emma before him. He felt that every time he caught sight of her she would be turning her head, as though she, too, were looking for him after every sweep of the dance brought them near the other. Perhaps she wanted to forgive him, but did not know how. Emma had never been much of one to forgive, and it only seemed that as they grew to adulthood, it became much harder for her to forgive him any transgression. Rather than resent it, he simply tried a bit harder to keep from angering her in the first place, but he had to admit. She confounded him greatly. 

In this instance, of course, she was utterly just in her anger. He had promised her that first night he left he'd stay safe from harm, and he'd broken that promise. 

When the dance ended and he had finished making his bows to his queen, he offered his arm and escorted her back to the sides, itching to find Emma so he could begin his apology. He tugged at his neck several times while offering to find the queen refreshment, but after a moment she smiled and pressed at his chest with her fingertips. 

“Go find her, Commander. You look as though she's put a frog in your trousers again.” He grinned at her, sketching her a quick bow. As he was turning, the King came up, his daughter no longer at his side. He gave Killian a pat on the shoulder and murmured into his ear. 

“I don't know what you did, Killian, but I'd tread lightly, if I were you. Oh, and congratulations. I don't know anyone more deserving.” Killian smiled at his sovereign and rushed off, still uncomfortable with his promotion and feeling sudden desperation to find Emma. If both her parents were telling him to go find her, things must be much worse than even he realized. 

Trouble was, he could not find her. He kept seeing her just in the periphery of his vision, as though she were some spirit haunting his mind, sweeping out of view the moment he tried to fixate on her. He continued to accept the hearty and increasingly loud-with-drink congratulations of people he'd never met and who'd never before wanted to speak with him, dancing every dance with young ladies whose mothers presented them to him like the servants carrying silver platters full of brightly decorated little cakes. 

He was beginning to feel more desperate as the evening wore on, escorting the queen to supper and being seated at her side. He finally caught a glimpse of Emma seated next to a handsome man, the head of the queen's guard, he thought, though he could not remember the man being so handsome. Humbert, his name was, and as he shot daggers at the man from across the dining hall, he felt his blood boil every time Emma tipped her head to allow the man to murmur in her ear. Graham was common born, like him; would he have to tolerate watching her being courted by this detestable ( _perfectly kind and honorable_ , the queen told a matron whose eyebrows were raised sky-high) man? 

By the time the final waltz was announced, Killian was feeling sullen and petulant. He was tired of dancing and tired of women throwing their daughters (and occasionally, themselves) at him. But mostly, he was tired of Emma avoiding him. He'd decided to offer his arm to the next lady he saw and be done with it, to go home and plot how he would get Emma to at the very least look his way before he had to leave again the following day. 

Naturally, once he'd become inured to the idea that she would simply not speak to him was when she appeared at his side. 

“Want to dance?” 

Her voice was tight but it was hers, still more familiar to him than the sound of his own voice. He nodded, not daring to look at her for fear he'd see cold censure in her eyes despite the fact that she'd broken with tradition and asked a man to dance. But still. A man could die touching the woman he loved, so when he held out his arm and felt the slight pressure of her fingertips pressing into his coat, he felt a thrill of triumph. 

He knew he could not be the first to speak, that it was up to her whether she would forgive him. He would not force her, so the first (eternal) thirty seconds or so were filled with stiff silence, he looking just over the top of the curls piled atop her head and she staring resolutely at his neck. Still, they danced as one, his hand firm at her waist and hers clasping his shoulder, the fingers of their other hands intertwined instead of loosely clasped as convention required. They had danced thus many times, mostly in practice, but she had always looked for him whenever a man approached her that she did not wish to partner with. 

Those dances, whether facing each other in a quadrille or touching as they did now in the waltz, had always been light and carefree, with Emma often tossing her head back and laughing at whatever outlandish thing he'd said. He knew there was always a mixture of disapproval and fondness from the adults that watched them, but he never cared. Not when she was in his arms, her eyes sparkling at him in delight or with the promise of mischievous words. 

This dance was not like the others. 

This time, though they executed the steps with grace and synchronicity, lacked any sort of passion—the somewhat reckless steps of Emma coupled with the unrequited love from him. They made quite the pair while dancing; it was one of the many things commented on by noble and peasant alike. But this—it was painful in how unfamiliar it was while being completely familiar. He could not remember the last time she'd been before him and had nothing to say. 

And when she did start speaking, of course, he wished she would have remained silent. It would have been far kinder than the conversation he had to endure. 

“Did you know that Mr. Humbert has been named captain of the guard?” she began, her voice a little too nonchalant. _Whatever did that mean?_ he wondered to himself as he finally looked down into her face. Why would her first words to him in three days be of another man? Was she confiding in him about a suitor? Had his worst fear finally been realized, that Emma would tell him _everything_ , as she had always done? He did not think he could bear it. He stiffened, and for the first time since their days with the dancing master, he misstepped. She seemed inordinately pleased with his error, the corner of her lip curling slightly before dropping back down to her previously displeased expression. 

He cleared his throat before answering. “No.” 

She hummed distractedly, now looking about the ballroom and back to avoiding his gaze. “He's coming up in the world.” 

“How nice for him.” 

“Nice for all of us, really. He's quite good.” 

Killian did not wish to talk about other men. Perhaps it was the strain of the evening, perhaps it was that he still did not feel comfortable with the sudden limelight into which he had been thrust; likely it was the infuriating woman in his arms. Whatever the cause, Killian felt exhaustion descend on his shoulders, wishing nothing more than for this infernal ball in his honor to end, and when he spoke, his voice betrayed his irritation with the entire evening. 

“I do not wish to speak with you about other men, Your Highness.” 

Her face turned then, her eyes darting to his angrily. She forced her chin up defiantly, and he saw the heat of battle in her gaze. 

“Oh? I always tell you everything, Killian, always. You used to do the same, but I suppose what with your daring heroics and lovely lasses, you've forgotten that.” 

“Emma--” he began, but she always was difficult to stop once she'd gotten started. 

“Do not interrupt me. It's fine. If you no longer wish to confide in me, then I shall afford you the same courtesy.” She was near to shaking now, her arm jerking his and taking the lead in their dance. Her fingers were curled into his frock coat, and if he'd not been wearing it, he was certain he would feel her nails digging into his flesh. “I suppose I should have seen it coming. You left to seek your fortune, and you've found it. Congratulations, by the way, _Commander_.” She bit out the last, as if it were a particularly distasteful invective, and he winced at the sharpness of it. 

He opened his mouth to retort, the threat of battle boiling his blood, but that was when he realized the music had ended and they were still in each other's arms. He dropped his hands and felt himself deflate when he noticed just how tense were the set of her shoulders, how she looked near to tears. He'd meant to end their argument, not prolong and worsen it. 

“Emma--” 

She turned from him and fled, hiking up her skirts as she rushed off. He saw her head out a side door, one that led away from the private quarters of the royal family. He knew where she was going, and his heart thumped painfully at the thought. 

Killian did not recall leaving the ballroom. He vaguely remembered Liam's voice calling out to him, but he did not wish to speak with anyone. He was miserable and angry—angry at himself, angry at Emma, angry at Graham Humbert, Captain of the Queen's Guard. As he kicked at an offending rug that dared to trip him, the thought that he was glad he left two days' hence floated through his mind. 

It was immediately followed with despair washing through him. He could not leave her, not like this. He would beg for her forgiveness, and he would not leave in anger. He could die the next time out, and she would never forgive him if he left with their argument unresolved. He could not allow that. 

Without conscious thought, his feet took him to their tower. He climbed the rickety steps, his mind curiously empty as he went. When he reached the top she was there, her elbows balanced on stone, gazing out into the night in the direction of the harbor. He took a step toward her, but before he could continue, she called out softly, “Not now, Killian.” With his head hanging down, he turned and left. 

* * *

The following night, the night before he was to leave, he waited for the steady snores of his brother to fill their little college before creeping out of his bed, not bothering to put on a coat and barely remembering his boots. He'd spent the entire day in a fog, packing away his few effects and tidying his room in his usual efficient way. He did not have a thought as he walked toward the castle, his feet carrying him along the often-trod path, his hands in his pockets and his steps quick and sure. 

When he reached the spot just below her chambers he glanced up, but all he could see were dark shadows. Hitching his breeches and not thinking about what he would do should she not be there, he began his ascent, climbing methodically, his fingers finding the familiar cracks in the stone and his feet sure as he went. 

The window was open. 

No candles were lit, and the near moonless night afforded little in the way of visibility, but he'd done this thousands of times before. Banishing the thought that this might be the final time, he swung his legs over the sill, not noticing that nothing impeded his way. 

He found Emma curled up on her side, a dark shape covered by nothing more than a thin sheet. 

He kicked off his boots and climbed into bed with her, something he hadn't done since he was eleven when Mother had died. They had lain together on the rug in front of the fire or below the window many a time, but they had not shared a bed since they were children. Perhaps they had sensed that it was an impropriety that even they dare not cross. 

He scooted as close to her as he dared, wondering if she was asleep and yet knowing she was not. Her breathing was too uneven and hurried. When her shoulders shuddered, he realized with horror and sorrow that she was crying. The heaviness of self-loathing settled on him like wet wool in a downpour. He reached out tentatively, moving her hair aside and wondering what, if anything, he could say to make everything or anything better. 

She let out a stifled sob when his fingers brushed against her shoulder, and before he knew it she was burrowing into him, pressing her back and hips against the length of his body. He closed his eyes and breathed her in, the soft scent of summertime filling his nostrils and nearly making him forget the circumstances that brought them to this in the first place. Gritting his teeth and telling himself that he needed to remember himself, he slung his arm over her waist, his hand curling protectively about her midsection, nothing more. 

* * *

When Emma awoke, Killian was gone. 

She would not see him again for another year. 


	4. Chapter 4

Much can happen in a year, especially when war is declared.

As Emma sailed away from the only home she'd ever known, her body and heart inured to the nerves and agitation that had settled long ago, she looked toward the horizon without fear. She had changed since she'd last seen Killian, changed so much, and while she was impatient to see him once again, she had to admit to feeling uncertain as to how he would receive her, should she be lucky enough to find him. The thought _if he is still alive_ went unacknowledged in her head. 

“We're underway, your high--Captain,” came the voice of the lieutenant somewhere behind her. She was at the prow, her hand resting on the smooth lines of the rail. She had Killian's final and only letter in the time he'd been away clutched in her gloved hand, the folds well-worn and near to tearing, she'd read it that many times. She had every line memorized, able to hear his voice as she repeated it to herself, sorrow and repentance coloring her memory until she could no longer think of him without feeling deep regret mixed with seething anger. 

_I only hope that in time you will forgive me for once again putting myself in danger._

_Killian_ , she thought for what seemed the hundredth time. _If you have died, I will never forgive you._ She felt a spray of seawater across her face, the cold droplets refreshing and wiping the scowl from her face. Action. That was what she needed, to do something useful. And there was nothing more that she and the kingdom needed than to find Commander Jones, her former best friend who had betrayed her, the man who had asked her mother not to inform Emma of his whereabouts. 

The man she had been horrified to discover she was quite in love with. 

“I will find you, you bloody scoundrel,” she muttered to the ocean. She fancied that wherever he was, he could hear her, for how could he not? The man always did know her own thoughts and feelings before she did. 

* * *

She didn't remember falling asleep; all she remembered was the misery and confusion. All night she’d stood there, returning cheery greetings and smiling thinly as people offered knowing smiles and congratulations for her friend, the newly-minted Commander Jones. 

She hadn’t known her parents were going to do that; she ought to have guessed, ought to have suspected, for they both seemed giddy the entire day, giving her sly glances and “you’ll see”s when she demanded to know what was the matter. Then again, perhaps she would not have wanted to know, for she was far too miserable in her own thoughts to have found joy and anticipation in Killian’s reaction. 

Then at the ball, for the first time in her memory, the focus had not been on her, but on him. She could remember how wonderful he looked all dressed up in his formal dress uniform, that she had been struck by how masculine and handsome he appeared. Taller, perhaps, and more confident. He'd always been a brash boy, full of the vigor of youth—both of them had. She fancied they were a lot alike due to the fact they had been inseparable since they were very small. The entire kingdom knew that if Princess Emma was brave enough to do it, then Killian Jones would be hot on her heels, climbing just a bit higher, inching one step further toward the edge, screaming that much louder. Emma herself knew she had grown to be a confident woman, and it only made sense that Killian would likewise exude confidence. He was not smug, however, and for that she was grateful; one of her many fears for him when he was out gallivanting across the twelve seas was that he would return with the arrogance of a man who'd known battle and won. 

But none of those nebulous fears worried her quite as much as her fear that he would return grievously injured or worse, not return at all. 

It was a thought that kept her awake whenever he was away; she'd be drifting off to sleep, the sun barely creeping up the horizon and she having just flounced to bed after this supper or that ball, having a marvelous time without Killian Jones, dammit, and it would begin. Images of his laughing eyes dulled with pain, writhing in a too-small berth in the captain's quarters (for she knew Liam would insist on it, would be almost as devastated by Killian's pain as would she). And blood, her mind always insisted on blood—sometimes running rivulets down the uniform he was so proud of, sometimes seeping from the corner of his mouth. 

The terrible nights were the ones when she was tortured with images of his death. They were never very clear, thankfully, but rather blurry, as if she were remembering them through tears. 

When she would awake the following day after those horrible nights, she would be angry. She never told anyone what upset her so, especially not Killian. The last thing he needed was another one of her nagging lectures about keeping himself safe. Besides, whenever he came home, she was too damned happy to see him to remember to scold him, despite the fact that they usually shared all of their thoughts with the other. 

That knowledge made Emma sigh, for though she told herself that she had no wish to change things, she knew it was not possible. They hadn't told each other _everything_ in years; why did growing to adulthood need be so wearisome? She supposed it was that she missed her friend and missed having a person in which to confide. Their infrequent and patchy correspondence when he was off protecting the realm was infuriating in that she could not talk to him about a particularly handsy lordling or a new recipe concocted by Granny made with what seemed to be an unseemly amount of bourbon. And now she felt like she could not talk to him about her fears _for_ him. It was a new facet of their friendship, one that had crept on her quite unexpectedly, and she did not like it. 

Yes, Emma Nolan, the Princess of Misthaven, missed her oldest friend. And never so much as when he was standing before her, shining and bright in his wonderfully impressive officer's uniform, glowing with pleasure from his promotion and the admiration of the kingdom. 

It made her want to throw something, preferably at his head. 

Then she'd gone and made a mess of everything, and now he was once again gone, possibly getting hurt. She would be full of fury if her guts weren't twisting about at the likelihood of another injury. 

That night when he'd come to her in her bed, Emma had a very vivid dream about a man without countenance. He was taunting her, crossing literal swords over some treasure they both sought. He was her superior, seemed he always had been, but she refused to relent, growing more and more furious with each curl of his wrist that could have disarmed her but did not. She could feel frustration creeping up her throat along with something else—something darker and utterly unfamiliar—a curl in her belly—lower, really, and it was all due to the infuriating man who refused to cease his relentless pursuit. 

She awoke gasping and grasping at the bed, but already she knew something was wrong. Emma wondered what had unsettled her so as she lay there, the escaping tendrils of the dream at once vivid behind her eyelids and then gone, slipping back to her subconscious until she questioned whether she'd really dreamt those things at all. At first she thought she'd also dreamt Killian had come to her in the night, had dreamt the comfort of his arm and the heat of his body. But no, she knew he'd been there—his way of saying good-bye without forcing her to return the words, for he knew she was angry with him, even if he did not know why. 

He thought he knew, of course, but he had no idea. And now he might never know. 

For he was gone. _Commander_ Jones, her dearest and oldest friend, had gone on another adventure without her. Again. 

Emma had spent the morning in utter misery, refusing her lady maid, refusing the enticements of Killian Rolls (dubbed as such by Granny herself after years and years of his wheedling _just one more, Granny, please, just one more_ ) for breakfast. Even refusing the tempting offer of sparring with Father, who claimed he wished to remain on his toes “in these times of trouble.” 

Instead, she got herself dressed in her favorite pair of old breeches and a simple shirt and waistcoat, forgoing family breakfast in favor of walking down to the docks. She sat cross-legged on top of an obliging barrel and watched as one of the various merchant's cargo ships was emptied, crunching into an apple tossed to her by a grinning, gap-toothed boatswain and trying terribly hard not to think of Killian Jones. 

_Commander_ Killian Jones. 

She was terribly proud of him. 

She wished she had not been such an insufferable ass. She had not even offered her congratulations or a “nicely done” or even the truth-- “I knew you could do it.” And worse, she'd treated him abominably for days, ever since-- 

Do not think on it, do _not_ \-- 

“Lovely lasses,” Emma muttered into her apple. Why was it that the thought of these “lovely lasses” tending to a wounded Killian filled her with such seething, unreasonable anger? 

Initially, she thought she'd been angry because he had not sought proper medical attention, had further put his well-being at risk in favor of buxom bar wenches. Her ire was simply an extension of her anger that he had put himself in the position to be harmed in the first place. 

_That is not the reason,_ whispered a sneering voice in the back of her head. The same voice that had taken up residence there sometime before Killian had first informed her that he had joined her mother's navy and sometime after their first dance. It was a voice that only taunted her whenever Killian was involved. She had assumed that it was her mind's way of growing used to her friend no longer being a daily quantity in her life, but now she was not so sure. 

Now that he was once again gone, the voice was louder, more insistent, yet somehow puzzling, like it did not wish for her to understand the things it whispered. 

Once she finished her apple, she stuck the core in her pocket, resolving to feed the first goat she came upon. At first she wanted to throw it into the ocean, but that would be petulant, and she was no longer a child. Throwing things at her friend would not assuage the anxiety descending on her with the continued acknowledgment that he was gone, nor would it ease the guilt lying heavy in her gut that she was the reason for the strain between them. 

With a heavy sigh, Emma returned to the castle, seeking she knew not what. Perhaps she would take up Father on his offer to practice swords. 

* * *

“Emma!” Father rushed up to her immediately after she gasped, clutching her arm at the sharp pain. She looked down in bemused horror to see red blossoming on the old yellowing shirt she wore. 

“I'm fine,” she said as he came before her, a look of alarm on his face. Several guards and two ladies' maids were upon them soon after, clucking and bustling Emma out of the open courtyard where the king preferred to spar. Emma knew it was useless to continue protestation, so she simply allowed everyone to make a fuss, smiling without humor at the many voices calling out loudly, “The princess is injured! The princess is injured! Fetch the doctor!” 

In little time at all, Emma found herself in one of the antechambers of the king and queen's suite of rooms, reclining on a _chaise longue_ with no less than three pillows stuffed behind her head, two under her injured arm, and a soft, velvety blanket tucked in around her body. With her uninjured arm she held a goblet of wine, her requests for rum going unnoticed after the king's insistence that wine would be just fine. 

“Emma! Are you all right? David, what have you done?” 

_Oh, good. Mother is here._

“Mother, as I keep trying to tell everyone, I am just fine. 'Tis nothing more than a flesh wound due to my lack of attention.” Emma was aware that she sounded sullen, but she could not and did not want to help it. She was _pouting_. Besides, if she could not pay attention when the greatest sword fighter in all the realms was coming at her without holding back on his full ability, something he had been doing for years now, then it was her own fault that she was too busy moping about Killian Jones to respect that. 

“Not paying attention? That doesn't sound much like... oh. Oh, I see,” her mother said, pulling a footstool next to where Emma was seated and perching on it, her skirts billowing out beneath her. She gently took Emma's hand and rolled up the sleeve, Emma wincing slightly when the already-dried blood peeled away with the action. 

“That doesn't look too bad,” Mother murmured as she began to dab at the wound herself. Emma smiled, her own moping temporarily arrested by the sweet moment. One might think that the ruler of an entire kingdom would be too superior to tend to the stupidly earned wounds of their own daughter, but Snow White always was considered the kindest (and fairest) ruler of any realm; her sympathy knew no end. Why, Emma had seen Mother soothing the burns of scullery maids and the scratches of gardeners with her gentle fingers for as long as she could remember. She'd patched Emma up more times than she could recall, and the scrapes and bruises that had been kissed by the Queen of Misthaven on young Killian Jones were too numerous to count. 

Once the princess had been seen to and Dr. Whale had been shooed away amidst his protestations and apologies for his tardiness, Emma settled back, glad for the sudden silence. She only wished Mother and Father would shoo themselves away so she could sulk in peace, but she never was lucky enough to have neglectful parents. 

“You didn't forgive him, did you?” 

Or astute parents. 

“I don't know to whom you refer,” Emma said somewhat haughtily as she crossed her arms. She squeaked as her palm slid against her freshly dressed wound and tried to ignore the way her parents were staring at her. 

Her father scoffed, something he never did around anyone but family (except maybe certain lieu- _commanders_ she knew), and Emma noticed that Mother, too, was making a skeptical face. 

“Fine. No, I did not forgive him. There was nothing to forgive. He already apologized for getting hurt, which is silly, because I know he did not do it on purpose.” Emma said the things she knew she ought to say, but inside she felt wretched, knowing her words did not ring true, even to her own ears. 

“Emma--” 

“Mother, Father. I'm fine, honestly. I'm going to bed now.” 

Thankfully, her parents let it go, and Emma carefully got to her feet. Once she ascertained that she was able to stand on her own, she brushed past her parents, turning to make her curtsy before letting herself out of their chamber. She met no one else on the way to her own quarters, and she politely declined her maid's services for the evening. She wished to be alone. 

When she climbed into her bed, still in her bloody shirt and old breeches, she hesitated. The servants had, of course, made the bed for her, but she was thrown for a moment by the memory of Killian curling around her in the night. 

As she nestled her head into her pillow, she turned to the empty one next to it, imagining she could still see the imprint of his head making a dent in the pristine white fabric. She did not imagine the faint traces of salt and warm male that assaulted her senses once she switched her pillow for his. 

It would be the only night that troubling dreams did not assail her as she slept for a long while yet. 

* * *

It was nearly five months before any news of the _Jewel of the Realm_ would reach the kingdom; correspondence was always spotty at best when one wished to communicate with a sailor, but when it was the flagship of the armada on missions of attempted peacekeeping, letters took even longer to find their recipients. Emma had penned a hasty, jaunty letter full of gossip regarding Lady Ruby and her latest suitor and tidbits about Leroy's feud with a particularly troublesome chicken—the usual fodder for letters between Emma and Killian-- but she hated her own words. And she knew he would hate them too, for they were quite obviously an attempt to return to their previously known normal. But Emma did not know how to apologize for her terrible behavior, and at any rate, that was the sort of thing that needed to be done face to face, so she wrote her damnable letter and sent it off. 

It went unanswered. The missive that arrived from the _Jewel_ was from Captain Jones, informing his majesties of his progress, which was not much progress at all. Their peace offering of inviting the son of the Dark One for an extended visit to view the lands, culture, and people of Misthaven were regarded with “a sneer and an ugly cackle,” so said Captain Jones. 

Mother read the letter aloud to her council, which was comprised of Father, of course; two trusted members of the court; Mother's oldest friends, the seven dwarves; Mr. Humbert, Captain of the Queensguard; and Emma herself. She could remember the first day that Mother had asked her to join, informing her that she trusted her daughter's thoughts and opinions, and that she, herself, would one day have to run her own council. How proud Emma had been that day, and immediately after the pride surged through her how irritated she had been, because Killian was off at sea and she could not simply turn around and say to him, “Killian, look!” How petulant that seemed in retrospect. 

“Captain Jones recommends that we start gathering volunteers and conscripts,” murmured Mother, her eyes scanning the letter. Emma attempted to focus on the matter at hand; it was serious—this near-declaration of war by the dark wizard—and yet all she could focus on was suppressing the urge to demand whether there was another letter, perhaps one for her. Mother dropped the arm holding the foolscap with Liam's elegant scrawl across it and looked around the table at each of the people she trusted most. “It would seem that war is inevitable at this point.” 

After the meeting ended, Emma rose from the table, feeling agitated over the the news and slightly hurt at the continued lack of response from Killian. She knew he had more important things to attend to, and that taking the time to pen a letter to a spoiled princess was perhaps the last thing on his mind, but still. She never thought there would be a day when Killian Jones did not do all he could to get a letter in her hand, even were it merely to tell her that the weather was beautiful, and he was thinking about the peaches in the orchard while eating ill-prepared meat and overly dried bread aboard her mother's ship. 

In the time since their horrible parting, Emma had been keeping up her sword practice, that one injury the only aberration in her training. She took time each evening to thank the gods that her parents were not the sort to pamper their daughter, instead insisting on a well-rounded education that included books _and_ battle skills. Mother's early childhood spent on the run from an angry sorceress had instilled in the queen a healthy regard for nimble-mindedness and a well-placed punch; Father's upbringing as a simple shepherd had instilled in him a healthy respect for good, honest work that made one sweaty with exertion. The result of their upbringing was a daughter who could hold her own, thank you very much. And a boy shadow (or was she the shadow of him?) who got much the same education. 

Emma realized that were she born to almost any other parents, royal or otherwise, she might be less capable of protecting herself, or coddled to a point of incapacity or vapidity, or any other thing she did not much value. And she might not have had a friend who made it enjoyable. 

So, Emma kept with her sword fighting, sparring with the Master of Swords when Father was too occupied in war counsel. Mother was busying herself with attempting to ally the kingdom with as many other kings and queens as possible, and discussions were made about sending Emma out as a royal envoy. That started the first major disagreement between the King and Queen that anyone could remember, not that the royals often argued when in company. Mother was in favor of Emma “finding her own two feet,” and Father was wary of the enemies of the kingdom—the agents of the Dark One, and the rumblings of the return of the Evil Queen—and he did not want to lose his daughter to darkness. Privately, Emma agreed with Mother, but she did not take a side, knowing that if it were decided that she was to remain in the safety of the kingdom, then it was probably for the best. She had no wish to risk her own self, even if the idea of an adventure on her own did sound rather dashing. But Emma also knew that she was important, and she would one day rule. To risk her neck on something fool-hardy was both selfish and idiotic. 

“You seem more at ease today, your highness,” said the man at her side. These days, the Queen was taking no risks with anyone's safety. The castle gate was often barred, and any newcomers to Misthaven were regarded with suspicion. War was an ugly thing, indeed, if Emma was no longer able to walk the streets of the village, poking her fingers in barrels of fish and conversing with the people she would one day rule. Now there were members of the Queensguard everywhere, and Emma had two following her wherever she went. She wanted Killian back more than ever, if only so that she could have a private guard that she trusted above anyone else in the world. 

But Graham Humbert was not a bad second choice, and more often than not, Mother sent him as Emma's escort whenever she walked about the kingdom. He had a gentle manner, and he was not hard on the eyes, either. Emma noticed the appreciative looks of most ladies (and some gentlemen) wherever they went, and while she thought it all very amusing (having eventually grown used to it with Killian at her side, although she didn't seem to mind so much with Graham), she also noticed the knowing glances that passed with some of the villagers, and worse—the disapproving ones from the people that were close with the Jones brothers. 

_It's not as if Killian and I are engaged_ , she thought resentfully. 

The thought brought a flutter to her chest. She really did miss her friend. 

“I do feel lighter today,” Emma agreed, nodding at a pair of freckle-faced twins, the both of whom were missing their front teeth. One of the boys ran up and shyly offered her a fistful of one-eyed susans with the roots still attached, and when he looked at her with wide, blue eyes and his dark mop of hair flopping about in the wind, she held her breath. He reminded her so much of Killian that she wanted to weep or hug the lad, but she simply accepted the spontaneous posy and leaned down to kiss the boy's cheek, and then did the same with his brother. 

Both boys blushed furiously before turning and running off, whooping and punching each other's arms until they turned a corner, presumably to tell all who would listen that the princess had kissed them. 

“I'll wager you just made those boys legends in the village,” Graham commented as they continued their meandering path. “I know if a beautiful princess such as you ever kissed me as a boy, I'd still be telling the tale to this day.” Emma eyed him askance but merely smiled, quite used to the raillery that flew from the man's lips so easily, but only when not in company. In front of others, especially the king and queen, Graham was ever polite and quite reserved. 

She had quickly ascertained that while he was cordial and friendly, Mr. Graham Humbert was not making an attempt at wooing her, and at that she was relieved. She did not think she would know how to let him down should his duty turn to interest. Emma had no wish for courtship; she had far too much on her mind, and besides. Graham was kind and strong and handsome, but she always thought that when she fell in love, she would be struck by it, suddenly and with visceral force. 

“Ah, my love. Good afternoon.” Father greeted the two of them once they passed through the castle gates, the sound of the portcullis being lowered still something to which Emma had not become accustomed. 

“Hello, Father,” she said warmly, taking his proferred arm and smiling at Graham as he took his leave. Emma walked with her father, nodding at the greetings of everyone that passed. He led her toward one of the many small gardens in the castle, seating himself next to her on a bench with a weary sigh. 

“How are you this fine day?” 

“Well. Any news?” This was the tenet of their conversations now: what news from abroad? Had anything yet happened? Was Rumplestiltskin making good on his threats to invade the kingdom? Was Regina indeed back for the throne she considered hers by right? 

Had the _Jewel of the Realm_ yet been located? 

For it had been too long since the commander of their flagship had been in direct contact. 

“None today, but the day is young yet.” The King smiled and Emma smiled in return, but there was no genuine warmth from either of their similar expressions. Emma sighed, looking out toward the garden; she knew if something were wrong, she would feel it in her gut. While there was a general feeling of being ill-at-ease, nothing felt _wrong_. 

“Do not worry, dearest one. We have good on our side; this will all be over before you know it.” 

But the King spoke out of turn, of course. It wasn't over by any stretch, and Emma would find that out all too soon. 

War was declared. The Port of Misthaven was closed to all but the most trusted merchants and the few ships left to defend the kingdom and occasionally, envoys offering support to the much-respected (and terribly rich) sovereigns of Misthaven, some wishing for a more permanent alliance between kingdoms in the form of a royal marriage. The Queen kindly accepted their offers of support and gently declined her daughter's hand; the King assuaged the disappointed diplomats with his easy-going manner and strong pats on the back coupled with overflowing goblets of wine; the Princess scowled inwardly while smiling brightly, accepting the exaggerated exclamations over her beauty and grace with a brief tilt of her head, but nothing more. 

Day by day, reports came from many quarters, some as far away as Arendelle and the island kingdom of Fortuna. Many battles were fought and won by soldiers from Misthaven, and many toasts were made to the brave men and women defending the kingdom. Lives were lost but not too many; the war seemed to be progressing just as Father said it would: quickly, and over before they knew it. 

Until one day came the terrible news: the _Jewel of the Realm_ had been lost to the Dark One, and her Captain captured. 

No word on any other survivors or prisoners taken. 

Before the news was relayed, Emma started having a terrible ache in her gut; she knew something was wrong before she _knew_ it. 

She had awoken that day with a dull headache; the weather was dreary, and she chalked it up to the horrible dream she'd had. She could not remember what had happened in the nightmare, only that she felt terrified to the point of spending her accounts in her chamber pot the moment she awoke. She got dressed carefully, her maid fretting over how pale she looked, and she was unable to consume much more than a bit of dried toast and her usual coffee once she made it downstairs. 

When she made her way to the now-daily council meeting, she was met with a feeling of grim tension emanating from every member present. When she hastily made her curtsy before those gathered and took her seat at Mother's right hand side, she looked up and was immediately puzzled by the pitying looks given her by not only her parents, but everyone seated at the table. 

She knew what they were about before the letter was read aloud. 

Lord Kristoff, Queen Elsa of Arendelle's brother-in-law and one of her top spies, had written the day's news. Captain Jones was being held prisoner in the Dark One's castle, and the _Jewel_ had been taken. They expected to hear from Rumplestiltskin any day now, whether to gloat over his victory or demand ransom for the man, if not the ship. A loud and vocal hubbub erupted at the table-- the queen looking as if she wanted to cry or sink an arrow through the eye of a certain reptilian bastard, the king looking murderous and very much worried. 

Emma responded to none of it. Her headache disappeared the moment “other survivors uncertain” had been read aloud. She felt curiously empty; she berated herself as the voices around her continued to argue over the best course of action, telling herself that she needed to offer her opinion (she had none), she needed to be a leader (a role she was not yet ready to assume), she needed to be strong for Mother and Father (but she felt as though she was going to fall and never rise again). 

“Emma.” 

“Excuse me.” 

She ran to her chamber, and it did not occur to her until much later that no one followed her. Perhaps they all sensed that she would not speak to anyone, anyway. The only person who she would accept appearing in her room in that moment might never climb through her window, ever again. 

* * *

The following morning, Emma awoke just as the sun was rising. She was not often up so early, and as she sat up and rubbed the sleep from her eyes, she discovered her face was tight, as if she had been crying. 

Then it all came back to her. The horrible news. She rushing away from the council. The curious numbness of her mind as she sat in her bedchamber, watching as the sky cast various stages of blue to pink to purple until darkening into black as it did every night, like it were nothing, like it were a day like any other, ending and waiting for the next day to dawn. 

Emma got up from bed and wrapped herself in her dressing gown, knowing that the only people up and about at such a ghastly hour would be Granny, hard at work in the kitchens, and some of the maids preparing for a day in the castle. To them it would be another day, and she had no wish to edify them on why it was the most terrible day in recent memory. She simply needed....coffee, Emma needed coffee. 

She made her way through one of the many servant's passages, trailing her fingers across the cool stone and smiling at an errant memory of Killian declaring with dimpled mischief that they _would_ discover every secret the castle held before quickly shoving the memory away and drawing her arm to her side. She crept down into the kitchen and prayed that Granny was there; the woman was a terror, constantly barking out orders at anyone in her way, be they a young lad from the village making a delivery or a princess begging for a basket to take for a day's adventures. The only person Granny had never once yelled at was... 

“What are you doing up so early, girl?” came Granny's gruff voice once Emma had idled at the doorway to the kitchens for a moment. She walked in and was immediately ushered over to a stool leaning against the wall, a warm mug of steaming coffee placed in her hands. Before she could open her mouth to thank the woman, a still-hot Killian Roll was thrust into her hands and a napkin was tucked around her lap. 

“Thank you, Granny.” 

“He's still alive, and you know it.” Emma supposed she shouldn't have been surprised at the ferocity in the cantankerous old woman's voice, but she was. “That boy would never do something so foolish as to die without saying good-bye to you, highness. Although I reckon you may need to go find him, mind.” Emma's eye goggled. Find him? Whatever did she mean, for Emma to go out and look for him? 

Even as logic told her that was ridiculous, that her place was there in the castle, her blood began to reach out toward the sea. 

“Anyway, you need to give him a reason to come back next time, Miss Emma. One of these days he may not return, and then you'll be sorry.” 

Reason? Whatever did the woman mean? 

“Now, get out of my kitchen.” 

* * *

Emma couldn't get Granny's words out of her head the rest of the day, nor the rest of the week. When Mother's war council convened upon Father's return from inspecting the fields for the upcoming harvest, Emma had her mind made up. 

She was going to find Killian Jones. To apologize. And to give him a piece of her mind. 

_And tell him._

She batted at the mocking voice in her head, still not wanting to acknowledge its words and at what they hinted. 

Emma sat and listened to the reports coming in from several quarters, her body tense as letter after letter was opened and scanned quickly by first Mother then Father, some occasionally read aloud, most passed on to Emma. There was no news to report and Emma supposed that was a good thing, for she had a sort of plan, and she was bursting to enact it. She never had done well with idleness, always needing some activity to keep her hands busy. She had once overheard Mother and Father discussing it, that they were grateful that the gods had seen fit to send Killian Jones into their lives, for he kept Emma from driving Granny and the stable master and the sword master and the falconer and, well. Everyone in the castle from tearing their hair out over the inquisitive and demanding little princess. That they were thankful that the little Jones boy was so good and patient and polite and kind, never once treating their daughter like a mere _girl_ , never once speaking out of turn, keeping her exuberant demands in check and defending her missteps. 

Little Princess Emma could remember being happy that her parents weren't going to be tetchy over her new friend not being “quality,” a word she'd heard often enough but never quite understood. Killian could whistle louder than anyone she'd ever met, including Gepetto the toymaker, and he hadn't even laughed at her when she'd fallen from a hayloft while trying to look into the nest of a bird up in the rafters of the royal stables. He'd simply held out his hand, drawn her up, then hoisted her onto his shoulders so she could count the eggs (there were four, and they were tiny and speckled brown, she could still remember it quite clearly). To her, that was a quality friend. 

It wouldn't be until she was having lessons in being a lady that the word “quality” began to take on new meaning, especially when her tutor in such things, a particularly prim governess named Miss Ghorm, had told the future queen that it was improper for her to maintain a close friendship with a young man who was not high-born. Emma could remember being puzzled, wondering of whom Miss Ghorm was speaking. She was so used to Killian's presence in her life at the age of twelve, so used to everyone treating his being at her side as a foregone conclusion, that she never once questioned it. She had, of course, defended him hotly, informing that snooty Miss Reul Ghorm that Killian was a gentleman because Father said so, and Father was the king, so there. Miss Ghorm had simply turned up her nose and said, “We shall see.” 

The following day, Miss Ghorm was no longer Emma's governess, and the queen herself took on the mantle of showing Emma how to behave as a lady ought; Emma infinitely preferred Mother's tutelage. Killian came along for the lessons as well because Mother told him in a very serious voice that “having the correct bearing and knowing how to introduce yourself properly is not the only way of being, but it _is_ nice and shows people that one is capable of civilized behavior. And we want to be civilized at times, don't we?” Mother tried not to smile because as she said those things, Emma and Killian were making faces at one another, but they'd both bucked up and nodded at Mother solemnly, promising to do their best to not get into _too_ much trouble. 

The lessons paid off, at any rate, since Killian was perfectly correct in both behavior and manner now, much better than Emma ever would be. 

Or she assumed he was. Who knew what the scoundrel was up to, off having his adventures at sea. 

That was the sort of thing she told herself whenever she thought of Killian these days. She knew that she was simply placating herself, but to think of him in any terms other than alive, well, and having a wonderful time were unthinkable. So she did not do so. She berated him in her mind, chastising him continually for being so reckless, threatening him with bodily harm if he did himself an injury. 

She was soon coming to the end of her patience, however. As mother read aloud another letter from one of the other, lesser ships in the armada, the date made Emma sit up stiffly. 

Seven months. It had been seven months to the day since he had left. 

She _had_ to find him. 

“Your majesty,” she interrupted. Mother put her letter down, arching her brow but nodding for Emma to continue. “I think it is high time that we tried to retrieve Captain Jones from the clutches of the Dark One. He is... he is vital, your majesty.” 

“Yes,” the Queen said slowly, tilting her head and holding her hand out. Father placed an opened letter in her palm, and she passed it to Emma. “New intelligence received this very morning confirms that Captain Jones is still alive and has been transferred to the Dark One's fortress. An informant has drawn us a map of the dungeons, along with a few pieces of information we can use to aid in a rescue mission.” Mother turned to include the rest of the council in her speech. “We shall send a small, trusted vessel eastward to retrieve the Captain since negotiations have failed.” The Queen frowned at that, and the King reached out to squeeze her hand, making her smile before she continued. “I would like all of you to suggest a possible leader for the mission. David, of course,” and here she smiled at her husband before fondly shaking her head, “wishes to lead the rescue mission, but we can hardly send him out; dividing the two of us would make our enemies think the kingdom weakened, and we do not wish to draw the eyes of those who would take advantage. Too many people know what he looks like as well, for he has traveled far and wide and to many other kingdoms; he would be unable to pass undetected. Not at all what one requires in a secret mission, hmm?” There was tittering around the table, and Emma knew that it was her chance. 

“I will go.” 

Her words were met with a few moments of stunned silence before a burble of voices overpowered her. 

“Absolutely not.” 

“Untenable!” 

“Are you out of your royal mind?” This from Leroy, ever-wary of keeping a close eye on the princess of the realm. 

“Emma--” 

Father was looking at her, his brow drawn down but his eyes shining with pride. Mother had tilted her head and was looking at Emma thoughtfully, pursing her lips as if actually considering it. Emma had thought both the king and queen would refuse her outright, and she had several things prepared to say in order to convince them that they ought let her go. She also had several ideas on how to slip away in a small sloop once they refused. 

But Mother did not refuse outright. She turned her head to the king, and there was a silent exchange of meaningful glances, frowns, head tilts and the like. Emma was impatient for them to answer, to tell her no, so that she could begin to enact her tenuous plans. 

“I will consider it.” Mother's voice had that ring of finality to it, like she wouldn't be gainsaid, and it was useless to attempt to change her mind. Most of the council looked shocked at this, their eyes swiveling from Emma to Mother to Father, to see how he was taking this proclamation (for while they were a united front, Mother was the one who had the throne by birth and all knew that her word was actual, technical Law). Father was staring forward stoically, but there was a bit of a dull gleam to his eyes. 

Emma was incredulous. She never thought her parents would actually consider Emma going off on her own, without them—on a rescue mission to find Killian, no less. Well, to save Liam, but honestly. Did anyone think Princess Emma would do anything without her constant companion, Killian Jones, much less mount a rescue mission to save his brother? 

As Emma rushed away from the round room, eager to reach her quarters, questions swirled in her mind. How long it would be before Mother reached her final decision. When she could depart, for depart she would, regardless of the queen's leave to do so, although things would be far simpler if Mother would simply give the go-ahead. 

It was not until the following evening that her parents came to her room, Father kindly (but sadly?) dismissing her maid and Mother nodding as the wide-eyed young lady curtsied, looking over at her mistress in trepidation. The only times Mother and Father ever visited Emma in her rooms and dismissed everyone were when she was in trouble, so Emma winked at her the girl, trying to reassure her (and herself). 

“You are to lead the rescue mission to save Captain Jones,” Mother began. Emma felt both elation and slight hesitation as Mother and Father began to describe in great detail how they had discussed whether Emma was to go, long into the night and arguing back and forth. 

There was no question, they told her, that she was capable of leading such a mission despite the fact that she had never done so before. They had the utmost faith in her ability to not only lead the small crew they had hand-selected to accompany the princess and defend her, if need be, but they also had faith (“full knowledge, actually,” said Father with a smile) that she would use sound judgment and caution in rescuing Liam. 

No mention was made of Killian; Emma thought that was because it was obvious. That they knew there was no way in this life or the next that Emma would rest until she discovered what had become of Killian Jones, just as they knew that were their positions reversed and Emma was the one out there with neither hide nor hair of her whereabouts that Killian would tear a hole in the world to find her. 

“Emma, we trust you,” Mother said softly once their obviously prepared speech was delivered. Emma was seated at her vanity, facing them with her hands folded in her lap. Father came over and kissed her forehead, grasping her shoulders and squeezing lightly as he pulled away. 

“And there is no one we trust more to safely deliver the Jones boys back home where they belong,” Father continued, smiling at the startled look on Emma's face. 

“We're worried about him, as well,” Mother said. Emma felt a prickling at the corners of her eyes; she had done so well, dammit, at keeping her feelings tucked deep down inside, and as she met her mother's watery gaze, she realized that the only reason she had been able to keep the terrible thoughts of what happened to him at bay were because her parents never made mention of it. 

It suddenly occurred to Emma how selfish she was, how the loss ( _disappearance, Emma—he is not lost!_ ) of Killian must also be affecting the man and woman who had always treated him like their own child. She had been so busy stewing in her own anger and secretly despairing over his absence that she hadn't taken the time to think about how others may be feeling about it. 

“I know,” she whispered, not trusting herself to say anything further. Killian was the one she discussed her inner-most thoughts and feeling with, not her parents. 

“We--” Father cleared his throat, looking to Mother and receiving a short nod of encouragement from her before continuing. “We know you care for him a great deal, and we realize these separations have been hard on you. Not knowing...it must be difficult.” Emma nodded but still said nothing. She found it hard to look at either of her parents and simply settled on staring at her hands, still folded in her lap. 

“I imagine that wherever he is, he is thinking of you.” 

Emma drew her bottom lip into her mouth and again, nodded silently. 

“He has grown into a strong, courageous man, and I know that if anything, he is alive and waiting for you to come yell at him for once again not having a care with his own person.” Emma chuffed out laughter, even though the tone of Father's voice and the way she could feel Mother's eyes on her was rather making her feel like she might cry. 

“We—we know that your love for him will drive you to do whatever you can to find him, we simply...Emma, please don't do anything rash, we could not bear it if--” But before Father could finish his thought, he paused. Emma looked up, startled, noticing a look of warning on Mother's face, as if she did not want Father to say such things. Emma was puzzled; what silent conversation were they having with one another _now_? 

“I will be careful, Father.” 

They both came forward, Mother wrapping Emma in a hug that was full of warmth and lasting a beat longer than her usual, Father looking a mixture of both pride and concern as he kissed her once again. They left with soft “good night”s, and Emma went into her bedchamber, full of elation and anticipation. 

_Killian, I'm coming_ , she thought to herself with a smile as she drifted off to sleep. 

* * *

“I think that's all of it, then,” Mother said as Emma finished stuffing two caps knitted by Granny “for those Jones boys, when you find 'em.” It was not general knowledge that Emma was going on a mission to find them, but certain people in the castle had been giving her knowing looks for the past several months' worth of preparation. The members of the council had eventually come around to the idea that the heiress to the kingdom was going on a journey, especially once Mother had rather vocally decried every single one of the dissenters, denouncing their objections and countering them with her special mixture of logic and regally raised eyebrows. Emma had been quite startled, actually, at how vehemently her parents defended her abilities, which only gave her the courage and conviction to do them justice. 

She'd been having misgivings, of course. Could she do it? Did she have the strength and know-how to go on a dangerous mission into questionable, literal waters in order to save Captain Jones and retrieve the _Jewel of the Realm_? While the mission was, ostensibly, only to save Liam, Emma was certain that some of the dissenters knew she would also be looking for Killian, and that was, perhaps, the source of their disapproval. 

She cared not. She had to find him. She simply had to. 

For Emma had come to realize some things in the swirl and whirl of activity surrounding her as reports continued to pour in from abroad, more details of Rumplestiltskin's fortress from their informant, reports of the Evil Queen's forces gaining strength. 

Then there were the supplies needed to outfit Emma's new command aboard an unassuming schooner where she would be posing as a merchant captain. It was decided that Graham would accompany Emma, along with several of his most trusted in the Queensguard. Emma had at first objected, her chin jutting out stubbornly, but her Father quietly told her that while he believed she was completely capable of carrying out her mission on her own, it never hurt to have a little back-up. Emma had taken a few days to decide that he was right; she needed all the help she could get, and she wanted people she felt she could trust. 

She simply had to find Killian and Liam. She would do everything she could, even accepting help. 

So, a crew was formed, including several navy men and women that had sailed with both Captain and now-Commander Jones; people who were loyal to the Queen, the kingdom, Emma, and the Jones brothers. Honestly, it gave Emma (and her parents) great relief knowing that all aboard the _Siren's Call_ would do all they could to bring Liam and Killian home. 

Emma really needed Killian to come home. 

She loved him. She was _in love_ with him. 

That was one of the things she had come to realize. Or, to be more precise, she was struck by it, quite suddenly. She was somewhere in the middle of the meat course at a formal dinner, listening to an insipid little man go on and on about the virtues of his son, and the entire time, Emma kept mentally comparing the son's supposed attributes with Killian's. “My son has been fencing since he was fourteen” was met with “Killian started disarming Father, the best there is, when he was sixteen.” “My son speaks four languages fluently; he had an excellent university education,” was met with “Killian would punch your son in the mouth while reciting bawdy poetry.” “Your son looks as if he's been fed sour lemons the whole of his life.” “Killian would never refuse such wonderfully cooked vegetables; he has the appetite of a starved oxen and besides, he would never be so impolite to his hosts.” “Killian looks better in blue.” 

When the insipid little gentleman made a comment about marriages being best carried out as arrangements, she could not help herself. “Surely, my lord, you believe in love?” That was when the son finally spoke for himself, scoffing and fixing her with a condescending head tilt as he began to drone on and on about duty and how that's how it's been done for centuries where he was from. And all Emma could think was, “I could never marry one such as you, for I will marry for love.” 

And all the while, Killian was in her head, laughing at the ridiculous boy seated across from her at the table. 

When the ridiculous boy stiffly asked her to dance, she accepted, for she was not rude, but the entire time, she could not help comparing his clumsy footwork with the more elegant and sure footsteps of Killian. Or how the boy didn't have dimples when he smiled (and that his smile never reached his eyes, not like Killian's, that sometimes she felt like the sky was reflected in his eyes whenever he laughed at her, even when they were inside). On and on she compared the would-be suitor to her—to Killian, and she could barely keep a civil tongue in her head. When Lady Ruby linked arms with her toward the end of the night to ask what put such a scowl on her face, Emma took the opportunity to voice some of her thoughts aloud, much to Ruby's amusement. 

“Of course he doesn't compare to that slice of heaven, my lady,” Ruby laughed, patting Emma's hand as they walked around the dancers. “This one isn't in love with you, and you don't love him.” Ruby had sauntered off then, leaving Emma somewhat confused. 

It wasn't until she was retiring to her rooms, tired and annoyed, that she was struck by it. 

Lady Ruby thought Emma was in love with Killian. 

_I'm not._

_You are._

Her hand pressed to her lips in astonishment. The thought that had gone unacknowledged for so long was finally pushed to the forefront. 

Her dearest friend, her oldest companion. Was this why she could not tolerate his absences, nor the thought so long ago of him being tended to by those damned buxon wenches? 

Was she in love with Killian? 

Once she was struck with the thought, she could not get it out of her head. She felt that perhaps she'd always known, even if she was not entirely certain _when_ she'd known it, only that it was very much true. But she dashed the thought, for it was too new, and she had other things upon which to dwell. 

It would not leave her alone, however. She felt it more firmly during yet another interminably long meeting with the war council; a comment she overheard from the other end of the table. One of those simple misunderstandings-- a lord and his lady muttering that it was inappropriate for the Queen to allow her daughter to risk herself on a foolhardy mission to save the admittedly much-admired Captain Jones. The lady hushed her husband, telling him that the princess was well capable of saving both the kingdom and her love at the same time. “The princess is in love with Liam Jones?” the befuddled gentleman had squawked. _No, not_ _ **him**_ , Emma had automatically corrected, and as the lady amusedly voiced Emma's exact thoughts, Emma had been struck with the humor of it. 

_Has everyone known it all along except for me?_ She was distracted the rest of the day, repeating it to herself. No, she loved Killian, of course. He was like a brother to her, after all. 

Only that thought did not sit well with her. 

She was distracted the rest of the day; when she excused herself mid-dinner to go...do something, anything to distract herself from her own ruminations, Father came to find her an hour later deep in the recesses of the library, a pile of old naval history books around her, trying to seek advice in the comfort of ancient battles—a trick she had once learned from Killian. It had been working, too, until Father came along and ruined it all. 

“Everything all right, daughter?” he'd asked, kneeling down on the dusty stone floor next to her. He picked up an old tome and hefted it, flipping it over and leaning forward to catch the light flickering from her candelabra. “ _A Brief Account of the Iceberg Wars of Arendelle_. Sounds exciting.” 

“Research.” 

“Ah.” He laid the book aside and sat back on his heels, his eyebrows raised as he fixed her with an intent stare. “Important enough to leave a formal dinner? I fear you may have offended the Duchess of Grant by leaving so abruptly during her recounting of her son's merits.” 

“I am sorry, Father, I was simply--” 

He laughed softly. “Don't worry, Snow did a splendid job making an excuse for you. No feathers ruffled. Your mother is an excellent diplomat.” He sighed deeply before sitting all the way down next to Emma, his legs stretched out next to her crossed ones and leaning over to bump her shoulder with his. “The mission is distracting you, I presume?” 

_No_ . “Yes.” 

“You're worried you won't succeed.” 

_Not an option._ “Perhaps.” 

“You're worried you won't be able to infiltrate the fortress.” 

_I'm worried about Killian._ “I think we've done all we can to prepare for it.” 

Father sighed deeply again, then opened his mouth to speak, but no words came. Emma looked over at him curiously; he did not often find himself at a loss for words. David Nolan was a brave man, a courageous man; he always faced everything head-on, whether it was a foe in battle, mother's ire, or difficult conversations with his daughter. But now he seemed unable to find the right words, and Emma grew worried. 

“You will find him, Emma,” he finally said, looking out toward the shadowy shelves in the vast, dark library. His voice was soft, hesitant. “If I know anything about you, it's that you will succeed in all that you do.” 

“Thank you, Father,” she said, touched. Father was always effusive in his praise, but something in the gentle tone of his voice resonated deeply. He paused once again, seeming to grope for the right words. He looked down at his lap and chuckled softly before speaking again. 

“He's a lucky man to have your love.” 

A tickle, both high and low, fluttered through Emma's chest. 

“Liam is very much admired,” Emma said softly. Father looked over at her, his face almost heartbreaking in his look of fond knowing. 

“You're a brave woman, Emma. You come by it honestly.” He leaned over and pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead. “But sometimes, even the bravest of us cannot face our own feelings.” He rose to his feet with a groan, brushing off his bottom and turning to face her. “Trust your feelings. I know I do, but so does he.” 

She had known for years that she cared for him, but it wasn't until she went into action over his disappearance that she could acknowledge it. So be it, then. Princess Emma was in love with Killian Jones. 

* * *

When Emma awoke the following morning, she felt lighter than she had in ages. When she heard the name “Killian” whispered as she walked by, she did not scowl as she had done in the past. 

Killian. 

She was going to find him. 

He had to know that she loved him. Perhaps he no longer loved her, not after the shabby treatment she'd given him, but that mattered not. 

Father must have told Mother about their conversation, for that very day, she approached Emma in her room, a letter in her hands. Emma turned with a smile, feeling buoyant after so many months of feeling unsettled and unsatisfied. 

“Good day, your majesty. Everything is in order for my leaving on the morrow?” Emma felt a thrill go through her at that; _tomorrow, I will be leaving tomorrow._

“Yes,” Mother replied, but she seemed hesitant. Emma grew nervous, eying the letter clutched in her hand and wishing she would simply get on with it. Had there been new news? Had something happened? 

“Emma,” Mother said after pausing and nearly driving Emma mad with anticipation. “I was asked not to let you see this, however...” She slowly handed the letter over to Emma, who suddenly did not wish to read it. As if she knew its contents before reading it. 

_Madam,_

_I do hope this letter finds you and the kingdom well._

_I apologize for my lack of correspondence; I am hoping that you understand that in the search for Captain Jones, I have relied on the other officers to send off communications to the kingdom and the fleet, wishing for the return of my Captain in as expedient a manner as possible. Having said that, I do feel it necessary to convey my deepest regret for not writing those letters myself. Perhaps when I tell you why, you shall understand—if not, it remains my hope that you will allow me an audience to apologize should I be lucky enough to return home one day when all of this strife is resolved and we have thoroughly trounced our enemies abroad._

_As of right now, there is no intelligence to report; the Dark One's forces continue to amass, as communicated in Lt. Gordy's short missive to you two days ago._

_The skirmish with Rumplestiltskin a month ago did leave a lasting impression on me. Your ship, Love's Kiss, remains unharmed; the Lt. did not dissemble on that count. He did not, however, give the full story, for I commanded him to leave that to me, not feeling quite the thing when it happened. Seemed the right thing to do at the time. Truthfully, I still do not feel quite to rights, but my duty to and affection toward you demand that I not neglect giving some sort of explanation to my queen. There is no easy way to say this, your majesty, so I am simply going to say it._

_He cut off my hand, Madam. The ship's doctor did an excellent job binding it and is even now discussing a leather brace and false hand to be fashioned over what remains once my skin heals; ~~he had to cut out a bit of flesh~~ he thinks I shall make a full recovery. And perhaps he is right. I only hope that in time you will forgive me for once again putting myself in danger, but I assure you, my body is on the mend. _

_I will tell you later on why that damned crocodile parading as a man decided separating my left hand from my person was necessary, but it is not a thing to be discussed in a letter. Suffice it to say, he threatened something that I hold dear to my heart, and I would not stand for it. He told me before disappearing in a poof of smoke that I was a fool, and I think he might be correct in that assessment._

_I beg of you, do not despair over my predicament; I shall get revenge on the crocodile for this; I simply need to come to terms with it. I wished for you to know so you did not think I was shirking my duties to you and your ~~dau~~ kingdom. _

_I would like to ask one thing of you—please do not tell Emma. I could not bear it if I knew she was worrying over me, which we both know she would do were she informed of it._

_I will get vengeance on the crocodile, and I will do it for my Queen. I ask for your forbearance; do not call me home. I intend to retrieve my brother, your ship, and my satisfaction._

_Until then, I remain ever your humble servant,_

_Commander Killian Jones_

Emma stared at the looping swirls of his name, her eyes tracing over the new title. Over and over, she followed the elegant, sweeping curl of the C, her mind curiously blank as she did so. 

“Emma?” 

“How long ago?” Emma was surprised to discover that she was whispering, and that her voice was rather hoarse. 

“Three months,” the Queen whispered back. 

“No word since?” 

“None.” 

“Ah.” 

“Emma, I wanted to tell you, I did--” 

“I understand.” 

“I don't know that I should have told you now, but I do think you have a right to know.” 

“Yes.” 

“He needs you, Emma. And we need him. _You_ need him.” 

“Yes.” 

“Will you be--” 

“I'm fine, Mother.” Emma turned to her and smiled, both of them knowing there was no joy in the action. She refolded the letter and slipped it into her bodice before folding her hands in front of her. “Is there anything else?” 

The Queen looked back and forth between Emma's eyes for several moments before lifting her chin up, a slight smile gracing her lips briefly. As if she had found whatever it was she was looking for. 

“No, nothing.” 

Her mother gave her that same slight smile as she hugged her good-bye the next morning, both the king and queen coming to her room before she stole off into the dawn of early morning. As she returned her mother's fierce hug, Emma both felt and heard the crackle of paper down her shirt; Killian's letter, already read dozens of times throughout the night. 

_I'm going to kill him for keeping this from me._

_After I tell him that I love him. Maybe before._

_If he has died, I will never forgive him._

Those were the alternating thoughts running through her mind as she attempted sleep, promises she made in order to soothe her agitated mind. 

They were the thoughts that accompanied her all the following nights skipping over the ocean, following rumors and traces of rumors regarding the whereabouts of one Killian Jones, Commander in her majesty, Snow White of Misthaven's navy. 

Of course, when she finally found him, she did none of those things.


	5. Chapter 5

Killian was sitting in a dim tavern of dubious cleanliness, but that was nothing new. For months now, he'd ordered the crew to port whenever one was near,  
insisting that they needed new information, and what better way to find it than a crowded bar riddled with sailors, good drink, loose women, and looser  
tongues?

He had acquired a taste for rum in his years serving for her majesty, but he seemed to require it of late, and there was no mistake about why. He merely had to glance with bitterness toward the left cuff of his coat, his eyes narrowing at the decided lack of appendage there. 

He almost always forgot he was now less of a man. His crew still followed orders with a snap of their heels, a firm nod, and an “aye, aye, Captain,” but he wondered what they thought and said of him. Whether the good name of Jones was now a curst one; one Jones brother captured, the other, lesser Jones even lesser now. 

He was aware he'd become quite maudlin since that dastardly old crocodile masquerading as a man had taken his hand, but he thought himself in good spirits, considering. Perhaps it was the good spirits he continued to imbibe on a daily basis. 

The weeks after had been awful; the pain was not unbearable, more like...an intense sort of absence, like a memory tickling the periphery of his consciousness until he went to scratch the itch and then there it was, his decided _lack_ of a hand. 

And almost immediately, a sharp pang would course through him, the pang that even he could not ignore-- a longing for Emma at his side. 

Followed almost immediately by the despair that he did not want her there, did not wish for her to see him thus. Which would make guilt descend heavy on his brow, his logical mind chiding him for thinking so little of her, that she would be angry on his behalf, that she would likely charge across the ocean to wag her finger at the Dark One before running him through. That thought would make him smile, until he began to frown. 

If the commoner Killian Jones was not worthy of the princess of Misthaven before, he certainly was not worthy of her now. She was the princess, heiress to the greatest kingdom in all the realms. And who was he? A one-handed sailor who was earning himself a drinking problem. 

So as he gulped his rum and flipped his glass over, tapping the rim on the bar counter in order to get a (third? fourth?) refill, he thought his drunken mind was playing tricks on him as the scent of clean lemon and sunshine wafted around him. 

“Emma,” he mumbled, flipping a coin on the counter as the bartender poured more rum in his glass. The man nodded at a new patron as the stool next to Killian was pulled out; the barkeep produced another glass and filled it with the same liquid for his new companion. Killian leaned forward and braced his elbows on the bar, effectively giving his best “sod off” at whomever was sitting so close to him when an entire set of stools was available. Honestly, the dregs occupying taverns ought to have better manners, when a man clearly wished for no company. There were unspoken rules about such-- 

He saw a folded letter being slid over to him, one bearing a broken red wax seal that his rum-blurred eyes may have recognized. Killian knew he ought to be more circumspect, that he was there for information, but honestly, he was in no mood for conversing. His mind kept straying to images of Emma, her bright laughter filling his head as she tossed her hair about, neither of them with a care in the world as they raced horses down a dirt road of their adolescence. He seemed to retreat further into his youth the further he descended into a bottle these days. 

When Killian made no move to take the worn parchment, the person holding it pressed their small, gloved hand onto the bar, drumming their fingers impatiently, which made Killian angry. Could a man not drown his sorrows in peace? Would it be bad form to run a bastard through for being rude and insistent? 

“Not interested at the moment, mate,” he grumbled, closing his eyes and lifting his glass to his lips. He tossed it back with a flick of his wrist and slammed it back to the counter. “Another, if you please.” 

“He's had enough,” said _her_ voice to his left, and honestly. He was not one bit surprised. 

Once when they were younger, Emma and Killian had found themselves in a spot of trouble. Well—truth be told, they _often_ found themselves in a spot of trouble, but there was one time when it had been an act of disobedience so egregious that they simply knew they were destined for the gallows. Emma had told him he had clumsy fingers, and he had retorted that he would make an _excellent_ thief, thank you very much. Taunts and mockery turned to dares and before he knew it, they were peering over a windowsill, eying one of the delicious peach tarts made by Miss Johanna, a lovely widow who had taken care of Emma's mother when she was a child. 

The tart had been grabbed (he had done the snatching, she had gleefully produced two spoons pilfered from the castle silver service), and they ran off to one of the many stables in the village, holing up in the hay loft and digging in with gusto. He could still taste the perfection of almost-hot peaches melting on his tongue, could taste Emma's wicked laughter when thick, sugary juice dribbled down his chin. 

They'd eaten the entire thing, no small feat for two children not yet ten years of age. And of course, in the immediate aftermath, they fault awfully guilty. They did not know what to do; should they return the dish? Hide it? Run away? Emma had brightened at that particular suggestion, and Killian had to explain to her why that was a terrible idea, that her father would find them, anyway. 

He'd been the one to suggest coming clean to her parents and to Liam, but she had been the one to confirm that it was the right--and therefore only--thing to do. So, they'd walked hand-in-hand to return the tart pan to Miss Johanna, the both of them looking at her stoically as Emma lifted her chin and said, “We ate your lovely tart, Miss Johanna, and we are ready to accept the punishment together.” Miss Johanna, bless her, had been amused, but she took their hands and marched them over to her parents to dole out punishment. 

Killian could remember that feeling well; the feeling of guilt that descended on him as two of the five people he loved most in the world looked at him with great disappointment; he could still feel the bitter sweetness of the peaches sitting unsettled in his belly as the Queen lectured the two of them on taking without asking, that Emma was a princess and had to lead by example, and Killian, she thought he was a better man than that. King David standing there sternly with his arms crossed, not speaking until the Queen was done with her lecture, his only addition that he was glad they had come clean and that if they were going to continue dishonest endeavors such as that, then perhaps they ought not spend so much time in the other's company, and that he imagined Liam would have a thing or two to say on the subject, so he'd best run home and admit his wrongdoing forthwith. 

That same feeling of dread as he walked as slowly as possible to the little Jones cottage sat heavy on Killian's chest as he turned to face Emma. So, she'd found him. Really, he ought to have known. When they used to play hide and seek as children, she gleefully declared it whenever she discovered his hiding place: she _always_ found him. 

“Emma,” he nodded, noting with amusement that he pronounced her name with the care of a drunk man. 

“Commander,” she returned, her voice not quite so amused. He did not wish to raise his eyes to meet hers, did not want to see what expression was on her face, but even as he hesitated, his blood sang. Emma. Here, in this dingy bar. _She'd come looking for me_. He wanted to shout it from the rooftops. 

He dropped his left arm to his lap before looking up to behold her countenance. 

_You've changed your hair_ , was his first thought followed immediately by _how I love you so._

“What are you doing here, love?” he asked, reaching for his glass, but her hand stayed his. 

“Looking for you.” 

“Avoiding our duties, are we?” 

“Performing them admirably well, thank you. Officially, I'm looking for your wayward brother.” His brow darkened at that. He, too, was tasked with finding Liam, but there were far too many snags. Lack of a hand, for one. His inability to think clearly another. 

She picked up his rum and downed it before immediately following with her own glass, licking her lips and smacking them with a satisfied “ah.” He watched the movement of her tongue, his drowsy, addled mind mesmerized by the motion. He had to shake his head slightly to break himself of the spell she always put him under. The last time he had been into his cups around Emma, he had said and done some inappropriate things. And that was when he had been whole; _remember yourself, Brother,_ the ghostly voice of Liam told him. 

“Another, Miss?” 

“It's Captain,” she said, still looking at Killian as she slapped some coin on the bar. “And two more, please.” Her eyes darted all over him, like she was drinking her fill of him, and were it under any other circumstances, he would make some comment, like asking whether he was more devilishly handsome than she remembered, or if the kingdom was dreadfully boring without him, but he simply couldn't be fucked. He was far too glad to see her, and far too fearful of the conversation that would ensue once she discovered he had, once again, been stupid. 

Instead, he grinned to cover his self-loathing and cocked his eyebrow. “Captain, is it?” 

“Aye,” she replied, sliding his refilled glass over and clinking it with her own. “Of the _Siren's Call_ , a merchant ship running rum to Misthaven, thank you very much, who is in dire need of a second-in-command.” 

“Oh, we're rum runners now?” He smiled inwardly. It was a thing they had talked about more than once—simply running off and living the high life on the open ocean. Emma had been fanciful, Killian had been dead serious. “Somehow, I don't think your father would approve.” 

“His idea, actually,” she retorted, leaning back and crossing her legs, one boot resting on her knee. She was dressed in a smart pair of dark breeches and a blousy shirt under a blue waistcoat; she looked every inch a ship's captain, and his heart swelled at the thought. It suddenly hit him that she was right there next to him, and only the lack of his hand kept him from kneeling before her and laying his head in her lap. He'd thought of her so often in the days after, had thought that perhaps he would not see her again, that vengeance against the Dark One would take him to his watery grave before he could tell her good-bye and that he loved her. 

But of course, she had found him. She probably knew his dark thoughts and meant to chastise him for them. She never did tolerate his leaving very well. 

That thought brought him up short, that at their last parting, she had been angry. He wondered if she were angry still. He looked to her eyes, searching for any trace of that old anger, and while there was a firm set to them that told him she was, indeed, angry, he also saw compassion and something else, something determined. He wondered what that was about as she continued speaking. 

“I come bearing new orders, Lieue—Commander,” she said softly. She leaned forward until their heads were almost touching, and it took his breath away having her so near to him, her lemon and sunshine scent welcome after so terribly long. He understood that what she was going to say was for his ears only and that was why she got so close, but he had to keep himself from closing his own eyes and simply breathing her in. Instead he braced himself, suddenly quite irritated that he was so soused. “You are to join me on my ship, and together, we will infiltrate the Dark One's fortress to rescue Liam.” She leaned back slightly, her lips curling into a smile so beautiful that he felt his heart ache with longing. “A secret mission, Killian! Like we always talked about.” Her words and tone were delighted and full of that sparkling mischief of old, but he knew her like he knew himself—there was something missing there, something he could not quite place. Almost as if she were hesitating slightly, holding back from telling him something. 

When her eyes dipped down briefly to his lap where his arm rested, he realized what it was. 

_She knew._

Of course she knew. She always knew everything about him. Well, everything but that he was desperately in love with her, of course. 

Killian sighed deeply, weary and wary of Emma's ire. She was both the last and only person he wished to see when he was in such a state. She smiled at him but was still holding back, he could tell. She rose from the stool, quickly knocking back her rum; he did not hesitate to follow suit, although he left his rum untouched. She held out her arm and he took it, laying his good hand in the crook of her elbow. 

“Come, Commander. Let's get you to your new ship.” 

* * *

“But Commander--” 

“Orders are orders, Lieutenant.” Killian looked down at young Henry Mills, barely thirteen and on the cusp of manhood. _War will force you there sooner than you're ready for_ , he told the young man in his head, resisting the urge to ruffle his hair. Henry reminded him very much of himself—exuberant, completely innocent of the ways of the world, and far too excited to see what lay beyond the horizon. He was glad to be sending the lad home with the rest of his men, but he knew the boy was disappointed. 

“Lieutenant,” came Emma's voice as she walked across the boards. Henry scrambled to dip into a clumsy bow, and Killian had to cover his lazy smile at the action. He was sobering up, but he could still feel the loose yet insistent buzzing of rum making its way through his system. 

It had taken he and Emma the better part of an hour to make their way to the mooring, strolling arm-in-arm like they used to. Perhaps he was still too rum-soaked to analyze things correctly, but he felt that there was something different; it had been a year, after all, and they were bound to have changed, but he could not quite place it. It drove him mad that he did not immediately know what it was, that he could not figure out what it was that made Emma feel different; not bad, simply different. All he knew was that he felt more hopeless than ever because she seemed almost fervent in her joy in having him at her side, chattering on for all the world like they were back in Misthaven and strolling through the village, not a care in the world. 

“You are too thin,” she told him, reaching over to squeeze the hand resting on her arm. 

“Your hair has gotten long. And lighter, I think,” he told her, leaning into her side a bit as he turned to face her. He could not resist the urge to dip his head down, pretending to inspect her shiny tresses, but really he was getting closer, practically sticking his nose into her hair and inhaling the first breath of fresh air he'd had in a year. 

“Listen, Emma,” he said, pulling away with reluctance and stopping right there on the dirt road. He glanced at his left arm hanging without purpose at his side, not knowing the words to explain himself yet feeling the need to purge the last few months' of rage and regret at the one person he knew he could unload to. 

“Not here, and not now,” she murmured, pulling on his good arm without looking at him. She was right, of course; the middle of a bustling and unknown port town was hardly the place for such confessions. 

Soon enough they were aboard the _Siren's Call_ , his stunned crew bowing in unison when all noticed that their captain had brought their princess aboard. Emma made her curtsy, dipping her head gracefully, and he could not help smiling at that. There was a time when she was discomfited at the awe given her when she stepped aboard ships; she had told him often enough in the near-dark twilight of her room when it was just the two of them that she never felt that she had done anything to earn such fervent loyalty, that her mother was the one who had fought tooth and nail to get her kingdom back, that Emma was merely a by-product of true love and had yet to perform any actions worthy of anyone's allegiance. 

“You don't see what I see,” he'd told her, which had, at least, earned a soft laugh in the dark. 

“What, a girl with a shiny dress and a smudge on her cheek?” 

“A woman of worth,” he'd corrected. Looking back on it now, he wondered that she couldn't plainly see his love, for he was quite certain that he showed it every day. Even now, when he felt the guilt of disappointing her weighing heavy in his gut and heavier in the ghostly hand at his side, he thought it quite obvious to one and all that he would most likely die in service to the woman he loved. 

“New orders,” Emma said to Henry Mills, the young Lieutenant getting a spark in his eye, standing up smartly to await the command from his princess. “You are to take this ship back to Misthaven under your command and report directly to the admiralty. Commander Jones will remain with me.” Killian could see the lad's mouth open then shut, the protest dying on his lips once he realized to whom he would be objecting. “We are continuing the search for Captain Jones, Lieutenant, and it requires discretion.” She handed him a rolled bit of parchment, sealed and tied with a neat ribbon. “Here are the orders from the Queen; the Commander and I shall gather his things and then be underway.” Emma turned briskly, winking at Killian over the snap of heels from the entire crew as Emma brushed past them. He wondered whether she was aware that the sway of her hips was accentuated by the form-fitting breeches she wore and the sheathed sword swinging crisply at her side. 

Killian followed Emma below deck, wishing desperately for water to clear the stale rum from his breath. He felt alive, full of new determination now that Emma was once again at his side. A rescue mission, to save Liam. The two of them together, and on the sea, no less! Just as they'd always discussed in their childhood. 

Only their youthful imaginings did not include a missing hand. Killian looked down at his wrist, shaking his head and wondering how he was going to explain this one, whether Emma would send him home with the others when she'd learned how reckless he had been, once again. 

As if he could help it. 

Not a week after Liam had been captured, Killian managed to find out where he'd been taken. He and a few other crew members were the only ones to survive; he'd awoken sputtering and floating on some debris, having been pushed overboard in the fray. The surviving crew found him, pulling him into a small rowboat and telling him the horrible news: Liam and the _Jewel_ had been captured by the Dark One, and they were lucky to be alive. They'd drifted for two days before a navy vessel from Misthaven— _Love's Kiss_ —had come upon them. Their Captain had been killed in a skirmish by agents of the Evil Queen, and they were limping back home. Killian immediately took command, two days' worth of worry and seething anger driving him toward the island where the Dark One reigned. 

Only the demonic little man met them before they arrived at their destination, seemingly out of nowhere, and with nothing but cackling taunts on his lips. 

Killian closed his eyes briefly, shaking his head and trying to dispel the encroaching memory, but it seeped into his mind, constantly at the ready to assault his senses. He knew he needed to grieve the loss of his left hand, but he was still far too angry to do so properly. 

The Dark One, swaggering on board the newly-acquired, far lesser ship, smacking his lips and giggling like a madman as he eyed the new digs. Making constant references to “jewels” and asking who was in command, surely a _Captain_ was on board? 

Killian could remember his eyes narrowing and his breathing heavy as he stood his ground, wary and drawing his sword. He knew it was no use, had seen how the reptilian sorcerer had bested Liam with very little effort, had killed a fourth of the crew with a wave of his scaly hand. Facing him once again, Killian had to draw on images of Emma's scowl to keep him calm, knowing if he died that she would never forgive him. He had to keep his head free from anger, for Emma's sake. 

“What do you want?” he had asked coldly, congratulating himself on keeping his countenance blank. The crocodile laughed in delight. 

“Surveying the goods, sonny boy!” The Dark One looked about the ship before his black gaze landed on Killian. He looked him up and down a few times before raising an eyebrow, and it was clear from his expression that he did not think much of what he saw. Killian clenched his jaw and thrust his chin forward, waiting, _knowing_ he ought not goad the man. 

“Tut, tut,” the little fiend said, crossing his arms. “This won't do. I'm afraid I found everything I wanted in your brother. He _is_ your brother, isn't he?” Killian resisted the urge to surge forward. “You ought to keep better track of the things you love, Mr. Jones. No, I think I'll simply head for Misthaven and leave you floundering here. The Queen and I have much to discuss. She never offered her daughter as a means of preventing this war, and...” The crocodile trailed off; Killian cursed inwardly for giving himself away. He had taken a menacing step forward and raised his sword the instant Emma was mentioned. 

“Take issue with that, do we, dearie?” The reptilian grin was terrible to behold, but Killian swallowed his anger and kept his posture. “Loyal to your Queen, are you? Or no, that is not it. Hmm.” He cackled in delight, rubbing his hands together and jumping up and down twice. “I've got it! The princess. I _do_ believe I remember hearing that the beautiful Princess Emma had a paramour, and that his name was Jones. I'd initially thought that perhaps it was the elder, but no. 'Tis only you.” He eyed Killian once more and shrugged. “Well, I don't see why, but if you're the one the princess loves, perhaps I'll let you live so you can see what it's like to have your lady stolen from you.” 

“I will slit you from tongue to tail if you touch her,” Killian said, somewhat surprised at the dark threat in his own voice. 

“Oh ho,” the demon laughed. “Feisty. I can see why she likes you. I _definitely_ took the wrong Jones. Perhaps I shall add to my collection.” 

“Perhaps you will pay for your transgressions,” retorted Killian. He could feel the dismay in his crew, and he knew he needed to keep a cool head. But it was so difficult with the crocodile taunting him, his skin flashing in the afternoon sun. 

“I tire of you,” the Dark One sighed. “I've got bigger fish to fry. I think it's time to find my son a princess for a bride.” 

And then Killian did the stupidest thing of his young life. 

He did not remember the events that followed with a clear mind; he could recall drawing his cutlass and charging the evil little man, could remember raising his arm and perhaps letting out a howl of rage. 

He could also remember thinking that he would die, and he silently apologized to Emma for not saying good-bye just before his sword plunged into the crocodile's heart. 

Only the demon did not die. He ought to have known; he'd heard the rumors, and yet. 

“Killing me is going to take more than _that_ , dearie,” the crocodile cackled. He turned around, as if he was done with Killian, the effort not worth it. That made Killian furious. 

“Even demons can be killed,” Killian snarled. “I will rescue my brother, and you will _not_ touch Emma.” 

“Emma. Emma, Emma, Emma,” the demon chanted, pondering her name and tapping his mouth. “You love her, don't you?” Killian tipped his chin up; he had never said the words aloud, and he'd hardly do it to an evil little reptile such as this. 

“Ah, well.” And with that, the demon drew a sword from his side and sliced Killian's hand off. 

That was that. 

The days following were not much to speak of; pain, sadness. A sudden and intense longing to be home and feel the press of Emma's cool touch on his forehead, soothing him as ever she did when he took ill. The longing abated when he realized that she would be angry, and sad at his injury. 

It was too much. 

But she was here now, and she was not looking at him with pity or anything resembling anger. In fact, she had a soft smile and was looking at him differently, with a sort of glow in her eye. He wondered what it was about, and figured she would tell him in her own time. 

“You'll need to leave your uniform behind,” she said, startling him from his thoughts. He smiled at her before going over to a trunk filled with clothing from the previous captain—some spoils of war, no doubt. The only thing that seemed likely to fit was a pair of leather pants, a black lawn shirt, and a rather elaborate red vest. He wondered how he would manage all of the buttons. 

“Rather fitting for a rum runner, eh? I'll look something of a pirate in these.” 

“You'll look a scoundrel. Just don't look prettier than your captain; 'twould be unseemly.” He grinned at that and walked over to the chair next to the bunk, dropping the clothes and wondering if she was going to remain. He wasn't sure if he wanted her to stay or go. 

“Do you--” Emma began. He looked over and saw a look of hesitation on her face, and he wondered how long it would be-- if ever-- before they were once again comfortable in the other's presence. 

“Do you require assistance? I can go and get--” 

“I'll manage.” He expected her to take her leave then, but she did not seem to be going anywhere. Instead, she walked over to the small bed and flopped down on it, heaving a sigh and leaning back on her elbows. He raised his eyebrow, wondering what she was playing at and deciding to find out. 

He tugged at the black scarf tied in a simple knot at his throat, pulling it off and tossing it onto the back of the chair. 

Emma simply looked at him, utterly expressionless. 

He got a flash then, somewhat hazy, of the last time they were alone in the captain's quarters below deck. It had been on the _Jewel_ , and he had been drunk and newly returned to Misthaven. 

And he had said some things he ought not to have said. 

“So,” she said softly. “Are you going to tell me about it, or do I need to beat it out of you?” 

“Think you can take me, do you?” he said wryly, his mouth turning up at one corner. He shrugged his good arm out of his uniform and let it fall from his left arm. He then started to unbutton his waistcoat, never once taking his eyes off the beautiful and smirking woman sprawled out a few feet away from him. On his bed. 

He'd had this dream many a time. 

Of course, in his dreams, he had also been a whole man. 

That thought brought him up short, and he almost turned away. But something in the set of Emma's jaw as she watched him stayed him from doing so. 

“Yes, Commander,” she said. Was her voice huskier than was normal? “I do think I could take you.” There was no hint of innuendo, just her usual matter-of-fact tone, but there was something new in her eyes as she spoke. Or perhaps it was the dim lighting of the cabin. 

He reached behind his head and grasped his shirt at the neck, tugging up and over until he stood there, feeling very naked before the Princess of Misthaven. 

Her eyes flickered briefly to his left arm, still bandaged but no longer in pain. He took a deep breath and sallied forth. She continued to watch as he picked up the new, black shirt, feeling terribly self-conscious as he struggled into the thing, but feeling an odd sort of contentment at the intimacy of the entire act. Emma, waiting patiently as he dressed himself, offering neither comment nor assistance. 

He began to button the thing but stopped midway up his chest when she let out a heavy sigh. He looked up at her, a question on his face. 

“Are you ever going to tell me what happened to your hand, Killian?” she asked softly, and it was so _her_ to be plain about it, to demand without command. 

“Aye,” he said, clearing his throat and reaching for the ornate waistcoat. He pulled one arm through and then the other, not looking at her as he attempted to situate it about his body. He decided to be as plain as possible in return. “Rumplestiltskin captured Liam and your ship. I had fallen overboard and was rescued by young Lieutenant Mills on this ship; I took command and resolved to save my brother, but the Dark One found us first. He goaded me into being a fool. I said some things he did not like, so he took my hand as a warning.” As he spoke haltingly, trying to find the best words to explain himself, Emma sat up, her face screwing into an expression of anger. By the time he finished, she looked livid, but whether it was at Killian or the situation, he was uncertain. 

“What on earth could he have said that would make you be so foolish? Killian, it was not wise to engage with the little demon. Father says he is a trickster, and I'm not rightly sure how we're going to go about rescuing Liam without encountering him.” She rose and came toward him, looking more agitated with each step she took. She stopped just before him and batted his hand out of the way, taking over the buttoning of the waistcoat and continuing to scold him, not looking in his eyes as she spoke. 

“You cannot be so rash when we infiltrate the fortress, Commander.” He sucked in his breath at her nearness, still swaying slightly as the last bits of rum trickled from his system. She pushed the bottom button through its corresponding hole and slowly made her way up his chest, fastening buttons and addressing them as she spoke. “We have information on how to get past the Dark One's defenses, and I cannot have you fucking it up.” He smirked at the invective, feeling warm inside. Princess Emma _never_ cursed in front of any but him. “I also cannot have any more harm coming to you, Killian.” He watched her set the waistcoat to rights, her fingers nimble as they went. 

She buttoned all the way to the top, her brow furrowing when she got to the end. She paused to rest her hand where the vee formed just over where he'd stopped buttoning the shirt beneath. She began to do one button of the shirt as well, her fingers trembling as she tried to do it. She looked up at him, her eyes watery with concern and her lips parting slightly. 

“If we lost you, if _I_ lost you...” 

“Emma,” he said gently, bringing his hand up and covering hers, staying her movements and trying to ignore the warmth of her bare skin pressed into the flesh of his chest. “You aren't going to lose me. I'm a survivor. I think this,” and here he lifted his left hand, “is proof of that.” 

“What if--” 

“No. No 'what if.' You're here, now. With me. I hardly think you'd allow me to do anything else that is foolish.” He smiled at her, looking down into her eyes that brimmed with emotion. He could feel heat surging through him, an overwhelming heat that threatened to make him act rashly. Emma was here, she was with him. She was practically in his arms, and she did not seem to want to draw away from the intimacy. 

He had the sudden feeling that were he to kiss her, she would let him. 

But he'd been foolish before, and the last dregs of rum were, perhaps, clouding his judgment, so he did not. He did not pull away, however. 

“You're right about that,” she said, looking into his eyes for a moment more before smiling wryly. Still not making to move away, she lowered her gaze from his and instead addressed his hand, which was still covering hers. He dropped his hand from hers, reluctant to move away and feeling the loss of her warmth keenly. “I've been sent by my parents to help with the rescue effort. Liam's disappearance has been a loss felt deeply by all.” 

“By me, as well.” She nodded at that, still looking at the expanse of his chest. He found he rather liked the rakishness of his new costume, since Emma could not seem to pull her gaze from his bare skin. 

After a moment of silence, she finally seemed to come to, smiling slightly and backing up a step. He had to resist the urge to draw her to him, to wrap his arms around her, bury his nose in her hair and not let go unless she asked. And she, in turn, seemed reluctant to draw away, but after all, she was there for a purpose. 

“Your breeches, Commander,” she said, blushing slightly. He raised his eyebrows sky-high at that. 

“Now those, I may need help with,” he said with a grin. This felt more familiar than the intensity of a moment ago, and he retreated into that familiarity gratefully, suddenly feeling at odds with himself. He tried to bat away the hopeful thoughts surging through his brain, but they kept insisting that Emma felt different, that there was something different about her, and it was a good thing. It was all terribly confusing, and he could analyze it at a later moment. She was there, after all, to save Liam. Not be with him. 

“You seemed to manage the shirt and waistcoat just fine,” she said dryly, finally stepping away from him and heading for the door. “I'll meet you above deck, and then we'll make for our new ship.” 

“Aye, aye, Captain,” he said smartly, tapping his heels twice and snapping to a salute a bit over-enthusiastically. The loose sleeves of his new shirt flapped, and he felt severely under-dressed in the pirate togs. Under-dressed, but somehow free. 

He watched her form as she left, her laughter filling the cabin as she saw herself out. 

* * *

He made his way above deck, having found a leather frock coat that somehow seemed to make him appear almost dashing. When the uniformed crew and sailors got an eyeful of their commander now dressed in head-to-toe leather—some laughing, a few cheering, and all goggling-- Killian felt self-conscious. Was this ruse going to work? Could they succeed at rescuing his brother, a feat he'd been unable to accomplish on his own? 

Looking over at Emma leaning on the rail and looking out toward the ocean, he felt a surge of renewed purpose fill him. She looked as confident as ever with her sword at her side and the wind whipping her hair around, her profile distinct and her expression uncompromising. _How I missed you so_ , he told her in his thoughts, somewhat surprised when he realized how badly he wanted to say the words aloud. 

She looked over and raised her eyebrow at him, walking over and reaching out to rub between thumb and forefinger the leather collar he had chosen to wear turned up at the neck. 

“Nice coat,” she commented. She stepped away and made a show of eying him up and down before turning to the crew at large. “Well, mates,” she said, an odd and slightly slurred accent coloring her usually formal speech. “Whaddya think of your commander now?” There were catcalls and whoops, and Killian rolled his eyes, doing his best not to grin. She was having fun, and he knew without asking that it had been some time since she had acted or felt this free. 

He also knew that he was the reason she was thus, and he, too, felt lighter than he had since... well, he couldn't rightly remember. But whenever it was, it had certainly been in her presence. 

“You look like...a pirate,” she said. He didn't think he imagined the appreciation in her eyes as she continued to take in his new get-up. Then she quirked the corner of her mouth and said slyly, “Perhaps you need a hook to complete the look.” Some of the crew seemed shocked at Emma's irreverence, especially the young Lieutenant, but the few crew who remained from the _Jewel_ smirked and elbowed each other knowingly, well versed in the informal way in which their princess had always addressed their commander. Killian felt as they did, amused relief at the return to something familiar. Emma was there, and as long as she was teasing and making fun with him, then the rest of the world could go hang. 

After bowing at the waist to the crew and accepting their murmured “your highness”es with a tilt of her head, Emma turned and grabbed Killian by the placket of his new coat. “Come on, then, _pirate_ ,” she sneered, yanking him along as she went. 

“Yes, ma'am,” he said crisply, waving his arm merrily at his crew, all of them still laughing but for Lieutenant Mills, who seemed slightly worried as the two of them left the ship. 

“That lieutenant seems young,” Emma commented as they walked down the gangway. She let go his coat and settled for walking at his side, leading him toward another ship a few berths down—this one far smaller but looking sharp, a sloop meant for running blockades and transporting contraband. The perfect thing to disguise a princess and a commander in her navy. 

“Aye, Lieutenant Mills is rather young, but uncommonly brave and capable. He'll make it back home or die trying,” he said, breathing deep and feeling better than he had in ages. The sway of the heavy coat he was wearing seemed to transform him into a different man, even his walk changing to something of a swagger to accommodate the weight on his shoulders. Or perhaps it was due to the glorious woman at his side, her hair shining in the sun and her face lighting his way. 

“...and Mother and Father hand-picked the crew, people strictly loyal to them and to you and Liam, so you can trust them all,” she was saying. He realized he had not been attending, so lost in the freedom of having Emma with him once again was he. “Oh, and you'll have to call me 'Captain,' of course. Captain Swan, actually.” 

He came up short at that, suddenly lost in a forgotten memory from their childhood. The one and only time they'd played pirates, before her father put a stop to it quickly, saying that he never did like them overmuch. Emma had been quibbling with Killian over who got to be the pirate captain and who had to swab the deck; he knew she would end up captain, of course, but he told her that whomever won the coin toss, the other would get to choose the name. Emma had won, her mother's face landing up a second after Emma gleefully called “heads.” Killian shook his head mournfully, hiding his smile and pretending for her sake to be terribly disappointed that he'd lost, but even as a lad, he hadn't minded her taking the lead. So he cast about, looking for an appropriate name for the little princess. His eyes landed on the swans gliding by in the harbor, so he smiled and decided it fitting. White and pure and somewhat haughty, the swans were known for attacking what they considered their territory. Like little Emma whenever the other children taunted Killian for being poor. 

“What be yer orders then, Captain Swan?” he'd said, trying his best to imitate the rough speech of the sailors he heard whenever Liam took him to the tavern, looking for work or a hot meal. 

“Swan?” she said doubtfully, wrinkling her nose at him. “Swans are mean.” 

“No,” he'd corrected her. “They are fierce and beautiful, like...your mother, and like you will be one day.” 

And she was. 

“Captain Swan, is it?” Emma, much taller now than she was then but still with the same decisive expression, seemed to notice he'd stopped, turning to face him and biting her lip as she shrugged. 

“Seemed as good a name as any. What shall we call you, then? Oh, I know. Deckhand Hook.” 

“Deckhand?” he scoffed. “I insist on being the quartermaster, or at the very least the sailing master.” 

“I'm afraid I don't know the difference.” 

“Pirate captains are in charge of battles. Quartermasters are in charge of everything else. And we get the better share of the booty.” 

“You know an awful lot about pirates, Commander.” 

“Arr.” 

“Killian,” she laughed. He wanted to hear it over and over again. 

“Quartermaster Hook, to you.” 

“Hook, then. We shall have to find you one.” 

“We shall.” They resumed their walk and suddenly, it loomed between them, at least in his eyes. But Killian was a brave man, and he decided to bring it up before they lost the chance to be alone again. “Does it bother you?” 

“Does what—oh. Your hand? I shall run that demonic little sonuvabitch through with my blade,” Emma said vehemently, her hand coming to rest on the pommel of her cutlass. He was surprised by the promise of violence in her voice, and somewhat aroused, were he to be completely honest. 

“I get first opportunity with that one,” he said darkly. 

“Agreed.” 

“I'm afraid mere blades do not hurt him, however. Know from firsthand experience.” 

“I still want to stab him for what he took from you.” 

“It isn't as bad as you might think,” he said, realizing as he lifted his wrist that it was true. He'd spent the weeks since it happened agonizing over it, but now that Emma was there, he felt like he could bear any burden so long as she did not leave. And losing his hand was not a burden, but an inconvenience. He would overcome it, he knew. He smiled wryly, not wanting to see any pity in her eyes, but when he looked, he found none; just that anger of hers simmering below the surface. Anger for him, not at him. He almost felt sorry for the Dark One should she come upon him first. Almost. 

“You astonish me sometimes,” she said softly. Before he could smile in response, somewhat flummoxed at the sincerity in her voice, she grinned before adding, “and vex me greatly. If you ever go so long without writing me again, I shall-- I shall--” 

“Cut off the other one?” he finished for her, knowing she faltered because she did not wish to offend. But he could never be offended by her, not Emma. They knew each other far too well for that. 

He _loved_ her far too well for it. 

They found themselves at the new ship-- “the _Siren's Call_ ,” she told him-- and he admired the clean lines and the seeming efficiency of the crew aboard. He recognized several faces as he climbed aboard, grinning at the men and women in shabby clothing who looked astonished at the transformation of the Lieutenant Jones with whomj they had once served. There were some faces he could not place—he knew he'd seen them around the kingdom, and assumed they were part of the Queensguard that Emma had mentioned made up the rest of the crew. 

Including the Captain of the Queensguard, that Graham Humbert. 

Suddenly, the day did not seem so bright. 

“She's ready to sail when you are, Captain,” the man greeted them, nodding at Killian as he glared back. “Commander,” he said, addressing Killian and sticking out his hand. Killian shook it, none-too-gently, his lips set in a grim line. 

Were they...? He looked between Emma and this Graham character, attempting to ascertain whether there was a new understanding. Whether there had been a fox in the hen house while he was away, not that he had any right to think in those terms. 

Again, Killian was reminded that Emma was not his to adore. But how untenable to have to watch the two of them together! Keeping himself from voicing the demands on his tongue, Killian looked away and pushed his sudden misgivings aside. 

Once they were underway, he leaned against the mast, content to watch Emma at the helm. He had grinned once she'd stepped up to the wheel, raising his eyebrow and exaggerating looking at the various crew running the ship and looking smart about it. He noted with satisfaction that Mr. Graham Humbert was most definitely not a sailor, having looked slightly green as he let himself below deck. 

“Something amusing, Quartermaster?” 

“I don't recall you having much experience behind the wheel, Captain.” Emma blushed bright red at that, looking out toward the approaching vast blue of the open ocean. 

“I took lessons.” His other brow joined its brother as he felt delighted surprise overcome him. She looked at him quickly before minding the direction of the ship. “When you—when you joined up. Father made me,” she laughed, seeming lost in memory. “That first time. Do you remember? That I would not speak to you for two days after you told me? And then Mother had to coax me to dinner.” 

“You did not speak to me until we were fencing with your father and I got slashed across the forearm. And even then, only to scold me for my inattention, and I do believe you turned to the King, triumphantly telling him that he could not allow me to fight for the kingdom when I could not even fight in practice.” 

She sighed. “I was terribly upset with you.” 

“You put the bandage on too tight.” 

“I did not wish for your untimely death by blood loss.” 

“You did not apologize for slashing me.” 

“I had Granny make your favorite for dinner that night!” 

“I _do_ miss well-cooked mutton.” 

“Anyway,” she laughed, shaking her head fondly. He felt entranced by the sway of her hair, shining rosy-gold in the waning sun. “After you left the first time, I was somewhat...despondent. Lonely. And crabby-- Mother had to eventually command me to stop acting like a sullen princess and get out of the castle. I did not wish to. Father showed up not long after and nearly dragged me outside.” 

“Kicking and screaming?” he asked seriously, feeling his lips twist at the very image conjured. He could picture Emma as she was three years' previous, the memory of her young and vivacious. The Emma of now, though only a few years older, seemed much more mature, confident. Capable. 

“Killian,” she laughed. “No, not kicking and screaming, but not cheerfully, either. We rode down to the docks and he swept his arm out to indicate a ship. It took a week or so, but I eventually dropped out of the doldroms and became enthusiastic. Bless Father, I do believe he thought if we were both on the water at the same time, that somehow things would be better for me.” 

“He was not wrong, I think,” Killian said softly, keeping his gaze ahead and not on the woman before him. He missed whatever looked passed over her face, for she did not answer straight away. When he turned to look at her, she looked away just as quickly, and he wondered if she had heard the conviction in his voice—conviction and longing. He coughed into his fist before observing, “you handle her well.” 

“Not so well as you would, I'm sure,” she returned, and he felt another grin overtaking his face. Usually, they quibbled over who was better at performing this task or the other; was growing to adulthood full of praising the other, then? He found he rather liked it. 

It took Killian only an hour or so to ascertain that Graham Humbert did not have any designs on Emma. The two seemed to be great friends, which pained him somewhat, but he would hardly begrudge her companionship, especially when he was the one who had left. Killian watched the two interacting, looking for signs of any preference on Emma's part, looking to see if he had been supplanted as the person who came first in the princess's affections, even if they were depressingly un-romantic. But then she would catch him looking and smile brightly, coming over to speak with him. It made him fill with light, having Emma with him on board, or rather—he supposed he was the one on _her_ ship. 

They were to rendezvous with a man named Smee, one who had knowledge of the Dark One's fortress and was willing to sell his information for a dear price. As Emma handed over the helm to one of the crew to turn in for the night, Killian allowed hope to suffuse his chest. Emma—confident, lovely Emma—had a plan. 

He could almost forget that she was a princess as she stood at the helm, barking out orders with her fists on her hips. Then he reflected that she would one day make an excellent Queen, so comfortable was she in not only the way she assumed the mantle of leader, but in the way that she earned the loyalty of those around her. The crew snapped to it without question, going about their business and looking smart as they did so. With a weary smile, she turned to Killian and he saw a hint of challenge in the set of her chin as she did so. 

“To bed with you, Quartermaster. We've a long day ahead of us.” 

He nodded, swallowing back misgivings. He wanted to talk to her, to continue to bask in her presence, but he knew she was correct. He had to be well-rested were he to take on the evil little man who had taken so much from him. Strangely, he realized that thoughts of the Dark One no longer conjured up a welling of red-hot anger, more like irritation at the task to perform. Vengeance was not for him, he decided. Not so long as he got his brother back. Not so long as the Crocodile kept his scaly hands off of his princess. 

Killian swept his arm out and Emma went before him, descending the stair below deck. He followed, utterly unable to keep the grin off of his face as he went. When they reached the bottom of the stairs he looked around him, searching for the door leading to the cabin meant for the crew. 

“Oh, the berths are all spoken for, Killian,” Emma said lightly, opening the door to the captain's quarters and turning to face him. It was dim in the hallway, but even still, he could see the glint of challenge in her eyes as she looked at him directly. “I'm afraid you'll have to sleep in here, unless you'd rather sprawl out on some crates on deck. I'm sure I have an extra blanket here somewhere.” Somewhat stunned, he simply goggled at her, feeling that newness coming off of her in waves. What was it about this new Emma, the one in Captain's clothes, and why did she feel so different? His heart throbbed the answer, but he knew it could not be so. Telling himself that his oldest friend merely missed him terribly and was most likely delighting in their reunion, he stepped into the more familiar grounds of formality and tried to keep his voice from cracking as he responded. 

“That would hardly be proper, your highness.” 

“Highness? I only see a ship's captain here,” she retorted, cocking one hip and crossing her arms. She leveled him with an intent stare. “Besides, when have we ever been proper with one another?” 

“Always,” he scoffed, grinning when she snorted. 

“We've shared a bedchamber many a time,” she reminded him. 

“As children.” 

“And as young adults.” 

“We never slept, though.” 

“You talk too much to allow for sleep.” 

“Yet another reason to keep from this folly.” 

“Folly? It would be foolish to allow my second-in-command to get a good night's rest?” 

“Emma,” he said, exasperated. “We can hardly share your quarters without everyone knowing. This isn't like the castle. I cannot simply climb through the porthole and climb away to safety.” 

“You're an excellent swimmer, Killian.” 

“Emma. Do be serious.” 

“Killian,” she huffed. Then she faltered, swaying away from him slightly and bracing herself against the door. “Do you—if you do not wish to--” 

“No, it is not that--” 

“I understand if you would rather not spend time with me--” 

“No, I have missed you! I want nothing more than to spend time with you--” 

“I missed you terribly,” she whispered, and he wondered how the entire conversation had gotten away from him, almost as much as he wondered at the sudden entreaty in her eyes. Like she was begging him to give in to her wishes. 

He realized she _wanted_ him to share her quarters. 

And since Killian Jones had never been able to not give Emma Nolan exactly as she desired, he nodded his head. Swallowing thickly, he opened his mouth and told her exactly what she wanted to hear: 

“All right, Emma. I'll sleep with you.” Then realizing the exact words he'd just used, he felt a flush overtake his face as he quickly corrected himself. “Er, I shall sleep in your quarters. But I insist on taking the floor.” 

“As if I'd let you take the bed,” she said haughtily, turning and stepping through the doorway. But not before he saw the gleam of happy triumph overtake her face when he relented. 

Swallowing his misgivings and telling himself that she merely wished to be close to him (as he wished to be close to her after so long apart), he glanced around to ensure no one watched before stepping into the room, silently closing the door behind him. 

Since the ship was small, the quarters were small. There was a lantern lit and hanging from above, glowing softly over Emma's head as she sat in a small chair next to the bed. She was tugging her boots off and looking down with purpose, as if she was suddenly aware of the impropriety of what they were about to do. Somewhat at a loss himself, he shrugged out of the heavy leather coat and hung it on a hook on the back of the door, looking about for a place to sit so he could also remove his boots. The only other seat available was the bed, so he took the five steps and sat there, their knees practically touching as he went about his business. He placed his own boots next to hers and cast about for something to say. 

There was a definite tension in the small cabin; nothing awkward, more like anticipatory. As if the very air they breathed was waiting to see who would break the silence first. 

It was Emma who did so, reaching over to brush her hand on his bandaged wrist. When he did not move away she grew bolder, gently taking it in her hand and pushing his sleeve up to his elbow. She lifted his arm to her eye level, inspecting the bandage and pulling her lip between her teeth. He realized he had held his breath so he quietly let it out, feeling a sense of wonder at the intimacy of the act. He barely let the ship's physician touch him thus, only allowing the man to bandage his arm that first night. Since then, Killian had insisted on doing it himself. But Emma had always been an extension of him, so if she wished to touch him, he could hardly pull away. 

Besides, she was _touching_ him. 

“If you were not already injured, I do believe I would punch you in the nose,” she murmured, still inspecting his arm. Killian had always known that Emma was a wonder, but he was still somewhat amazed that the grotesque nature of his wound did not seem to faze her. She was curious, certainly, but she always had been whenever he was hurt--after it was clear he was going to fare just fine, of course. The very first time Killian had been seriously injured had been when the Queen was teaching them both to ride; Emma had begun when she was five, so of course she was far steadier in the saddle than he. 

He had been nine at the time, already a frequent if not-quite-accepted guest of the castle. Mother had finally done away with her misgivings, allowing Killian freedom to visit as long as the royal family did not tire of him. “Do not be underfoot, be polite and thankful, and make sure you make your bow whenever one of them enters a room, even that princess of yours,” she had told him, licking her thumb and wiping away at the perpetual dirt on his cheek. 

“I will, Mother,” he told her solemnly, counting under his breath to five before bounding away from their cottage. 

Months of spending every morning, afternoon, and often and with increasing frequency even his dinner with the princess, and finally, he was to learn to ride a horse. Both Mother and the Queen had insisted he become familiar with the stables first, so he spent time there, feeling somewhat unnerved at the size of the animals. He only admitted his fear to young Princess Emma, who did not tease him for his trepidation. Instead, she had simply held his hand and promised that she would not let him fall. 

But fall he had. 

He did not know what had happened—his horse, a gentle mare, had spooked at something. Whatever it was, he found he was on the ground, the wind quite knocked out of him and a cold sting in his arm as the young princess hovered over him. He saw tears on her cheeks and felt immediately guilty for being the cause of them. He tried to reach up to brush them away, but his arm would not move. 

“Broken,” declared the doctor. He was sent home, where both Mother and Liam fussed and exclaimed and asked after the princess. Killian was about to say that she was just fine when there was a furious pounding at the door of their cottage. The little princess stood there, new tears on her cheeks. She was so overset that Mother could not understand her; Killian had to translate, and as he listened to her sobbed and garbled words, his chest tightened. It was her fault, she said. She told him she would not let him fall; she had broken her promise. Father had told her that if Killian did not wish to be her friend anymore, then she would take her leave of them, but please, could she see him and kiss his arm where it hurt so he could get better? 

“Oughtn't you to be offering to kiss it and make it better?” he grinned, looking down to catch her eye. She glanced up from her perusal and he could feel the connection of the shared memory. How he had nodded solemnly at her entreaty, and how he had filled with happy warmth when the young princess removed the blanket from his shoulder, lifted the short sleeve of his tunic, and kissed the swollen arm where it was bound with strips of cloth. 

“I'm sorry this happened to you,” she had whispered, her sweet little voice miserable with tears. “I do not like seeing you hurt.” 

Then her eyes had brimmed with tears of relief, for Killian told her not to be silly, of _course_ he still wished to be her friend. He was going to say something similar now as she regarded him with eyes clear from tears, but there was something determined in her expression. Holding his gaze, she leaned down and flipped his arm over, pressing her lips to the flesh just above the bandage. 

He did not breathe; he did not wish for something so unnecessary to ruin the moment. 

It did not end there, and Killian realized with detachment that he would relive this over and over in the years to come, but at the same time his focus was on the woman before him—the one he loved above all, this one who was confounding him the more time he spent in her presence. She leaned toward him, her face inches from his. He could feel her breath on his cheek as she continued her path until her hair brushed his nose and he could feel her pause just next to his ear. 

“I'm sorry that this happened to you,” she whispered. As she pulled away, he felt the light brush of her lips at the corner of his jaw, the sensation tickling down his neck, radiating across his back, and settling somewhere in his groin. He was overcome by the smell of her, her nearness, her warmth and her very being. He now knew, somehow, that were he to kiss her fully on the mouth as he so desperately wished to do, that she would allow it. Perhaps even encourage it. 

When she pulled away, he half expected her to be bright red and looking away, but she was not. She met his gaze directly, a small smile tugging at her lips. 

And then she was gone, rising and brushing past him to a small trunk at the foot of the bed. She pulled out an old patchwork quilt and handed it to him. 

“I can sleep on the floor, if you wish,” she said softly. Still somewhat dazed, it took him a moment to respond, and when he did, he had to clear his throat first. 

“My brother would beat me black and blue if I were to allow a princess of the realm to take the floor when a perfectly good bed was available,” he said, his voice soft in return. As if he was afraid to break the fragile feeling of... _newness_ in the room. 

“Captain,” she corrected, a smile in her voice. “A Captain of the realm.” He stood, taking the quilt from her hands and spreading it on the floor next to the bed. He laid down, stretching both arms out and behind his head, looking at Emma standing above him. She was looking down at him, first at his eyes, then down his entire form. 

“Eying the merchandise, milady?” he said, cocking his brow, utterly unable to help himself. She snorted and rolled her eyes, lightly kicking his leg with her stockinged foot. She crawled over to her bed and he could hear her settling in, his heart racing as questions poured into his head. Would things be different come morning? Had she meant to kiss him? Was she merely glad to see him, and when they got home, would things return to their slightly more formal friendship? Would she let him kiss her? 

He asked none of his questions, instead settling on the one thing he knew to be true. 

“I'm glad you found me,” he said softly into the night. 

“Always,” she murmured somewhere above him. 

He fell asleep with a smile on his lips. No menacing cackle haunted his dreams, no feelings of fury or tingling pain on his left kept him awake. When he awoke the following morning, he sat up and looked to his right, but the bed was empty and neatly made. He smiled, however; as he rose and stretched, he realized that the answers to his questions would be answered. But first, he had to see about rescuing his wayward brother from a demonic little man. That the woman he loved was there to light the way only made him confident that they would succeed. 

He could wait to get his answers, but he suddenly found that he could not wait to tell her something. _The_ thing, the most important thing. 

He would wait, of course; _I am in love with you_ would only hinder their rescue mission. But he was no longer willing to keep it locked inside, eating away at him while waiting for her to reciprocate the feeling. 

However--he was no longer completely uncertain that she, too, might be in love with him.


	6. Chapter 6

Knowing that she loved Killian Jones was one thing; telling him was quite another. It was all good and fine to realize it, but Emma found that she did not  
know how to act around Killian, now that she had found him. He had looked so good to her, drunk as he was, and it had been all she could do to keep her  
hands off of him, to reassure herself that he was (mostly) unharmed.

It was odd, this new feeling. A little familiar, a lot newly realized. She saw many nuances to his actions now that she could name what she had always felt for him. The way she would catch him grinning at her—before, it had seemed their old way of sharing a private joke, the language only the two of them understood, their knowing glances needing no words. Now there was a heightened sense of awareness; his smiles had always been for her and her alone, but she understood now that she herself smiled wider and more easily for him and at him. 

It was both a relief and quite terrifying. 

But Emma was a brave woman, and she was pleased to know that this did not change simply because she now acknowledged that she was terribly, irrevocably in love with her closest friend in the world. 

_What if he does not feel the same?_ her mind screamed. 

But when he could not breathe as she brushed her lips across his jaw, she felt the answer to that down in her bones. Killian loved her as well. She had acknowledged it before, but it took on new meaning now, felt more real to her. Seeing love and feeling love were two very different things. Mother had been right all those years ago, after all. The two of them had once asked her what it meant when everyone said that Snow White and her Prince Charming had True Love. The Queen had smiled at the two of them, kneeling down to their level, her skirts billowing wonderfully around their legs. “Love, in its simplest and purest form, is uncomplicated,” she had explained in her soft, mellifluous voice. “There are many forms of love—that between a parent and child, that between friends and between siblings. But when two people come to care for one another, will put the other's well-being above their own, and would do anything to assuage any hurts, to prevent any harm from coming to them, to wish to do nothing more than hold their hand and be with them always, it's a rare and special thing, not to be taken lightly. Love is special; True Love is rare.” 

"Killian and I are like that," the young and naive Emma had said, looking at her friend and smiling when he nodded solemnly. Her mother had smiled at that, telling them both that one day they would understand the full scope of her words. 

Emma now understood. She had always cared for him, had always loved him. But the true, abiding feelings took the forefront now, until she became impatient to see him, even when he was right next to her. 

These were the thoughts going through Emma's head when she awoke in her quarters aboard the _Siren's Call_. She drifted from sleep on a smile, only realizing why she was smiling when she heard a soft snore coming from the floor below her. 

_Killian_ , she thought, her smile broadening to a happy grin, big and wide. Killian was there, right next to her. 

As she lay there feeling the gentle sway of the ocean, Emma took exactly thirty seconds to revel in the fact that he was there and Killian was there—they were there, and they were together. When she'd set out to find him, she knew she would succeed, but somehow, it became very real as she shook the last tendrils of sleep from her mind. Suddenly, the task she had set for herself to find and rescue Liam from the clutches of the Dark One felt like a thing she could accomplish. 

She knew that with Killian at her side, she would always succeed. 

She gasped back a laugh when a deep snore wrenched her from her thoughts; covering her mouth with her hand, she rolled over to the edge of the bed to look at the man who was at her side. 

Watching Killian sleeping, she was struck somewhat dumb by how handsome he was—the way his lashes dusted across his cheeks, how smooth and unconcerned was his brow at rest. Even without the piercing intensity of his terribly blue eyes, he still looked striking to her. His dark stubble overly long, the bow of his upper lip mischievous, like it might twitch into a smile of its own accord, even in sleep. She had always known, of course, that Killian Jones was a handsome man; well, nearly always. When they were children, he had simply looked good to her. It wasn't until she was older—perhaps thirteen—that she began to notice that his easy smiles and good looks were beyond the realm of normal. One quirk of his lips set the milkmaids grinning; the washerwomen of the village were forever pinching his cheeks, and the bar wenches used to call out to the two of them whenever they would pass, asking when he was going to come see them for a pint and a tickle. 

It wasn't until Lady Ruby had wistfully spoken of “the princess's handsome beau” during one of Mother's afternoon teas and the other ladies-in-waiting had sighed in agreement that Emma actually took notice. “He is _not_ my beau,” she had said firmly, a flush overtaking her face, though it was more in protest than anything. “And he is hardly handsome.” That had made the affable and vivacious Lady Ruby snort into her tea, spilling it into her saucer and hastily wiping it from her fingers with her skirts. 

“I hate to disagree with a princess of the realm, my lady, but...he is,” Lady Ruby had said, smiling knowingly at Emma, which infuriated her at the time. She simply could not understand why everyone insisted on making more of her friendship than it was. 

Now, of course, she felt rather stupid that the entire kingdom saw it before she did. She had asked herself during the months of sailing the realm and trying to find him why that was so; she had eventually settled on her own headstrong nature as the answer. She loved her best friend and always had, and she had been afraid of it being something more, for reasons she dared not guess. Falling in love with him had been as simple as breathing; admitting it to herself as difficult as executing a perfect anchor hitch knot. But, much like the knot itself, once she admitted it, her belief held fast and true. 

“Emma,” Killian murmured in his sleep. She had to fight the urge to poke him awake, to tease him for dreaming of her and to watch him smile as he took in who it was who disturbed his slumber. The thought was too tempting, so she quietly rose from the bed, carefully picking her way over his prone form and resisting the urge to pull the blanket up over his shoulders. She guessed he would be awake sooner rather than later, and she wanted a moment to gather her wits about her and try to decide on a course of action for the more pressing matter at hand: rescuing Captain Jones from the clutches of an evil little wizard. 

Some time later found Emma at the railing and watching as the sun crept over the horizon. She had a warm mug of coffee between her hands, the steam billowing out and getting lost in the cool spray of the ocean as the _Siren's Call_ cut through the steady chop. As someone came to lean next to her, she did not need to look to know it was Killian. She would know him anywhere, but there was also that no one else aboard would feel comfortable approaching their princess in such a way; no one else would lean so close into her space until his arm was touching hers. She could feel that touch, even through the layers of his ridiculous leather pirate's coat and her own thick, wool greatcoat. 

“Captain,” he said after a fashion, his voice graveled and deep from the early hour. She smiled into her mug and sipped carefully to hide the simple delight she took in the sound of his voice. She wanted to tell him that she loved him. She wanted to command him to never leave her for that long again. She wanted so many things, and yet she knew not how to ask for them. So, instead, she spoke to the sun, her voice soft though she knew he would hear it. 

“Hook.” He snorted at that, and she smiled again before continuing. “We've much to discuss.” 

“Aye, Captain. Where are we headed?” 

“To speak with our informant. He sent word that he'll be in a tavern called the Rusty Compass somewhere on the island of Fortuna in two days' time. We should be...Killian?” She felt him stiffen the moment she'd mentioned the island, so she finally turned to see what was wrong, ignoring the soft flutter in her chest when she looked into his eyes. How had she been so blind to him before? 

“Fortuna is a pirate haven, Emma.” 

“I know.” 

“ _Pirates_ , Emma.” 

“I am aware.” 

“You should not be consorting with pirates.” 

“I'm consorting with you.” 

“I merely look the part. And quite well, don't you think?” He turned with a flourish, the tails of his coat swishing about and slapping her thighs as he returned. He grinned, the now-three days' stubble dusting his chin making him seem rather rakish; she nearly rolled her eyes thinking of the ladies back home who would swoon over the dashing young commander if they saw him now. Then she scowled, because she did not want them to see him thus. 

“What have I done now?” he sighed, pulling her from the startling and sudden jealous turn of her thoughts. 

“Nothing,” she muttered, feeling ridiculous and wishing he would simply tease her to anger, as he was so good at doing, so she could feel to rights again. 

“You know, you look a bit like a pirate yourself,” he continued; she wondered whether he had noticed the souring of her mood, whether, indeed, he was still attuned to her every thought and emotion. “I always knew you had it in you, Captain Swan.” 

Her eyes narrowed, and she had to suppress the twitch of a smile threatening to curl her lips. “I look more a pirate than you do.” 

“I'm wearing leather!” 

“You don't have a cutlass or a peg leg. Or a hook.” 

“At least I have scars. Your skin is too flawless and fair for a pirate.” 

“Oh? Well, _you_ do not look like a murderous thief, Killian. Your eyes are too kind—you ought to be looking like you're planning on how to abscond with my jewels as we speak.” 

“Or your clothes.” 

They both blushed at that. 

“Or those,” Emma said, cursing how breathless she sounded. Wishing to alleviate the sudden awkwardness of the moment (she honestly could not remember their last awkward moment), she cast about for something to change the conversation, but her mind was blank. 

Thankfully, Mr. Humbert approached at that very moment, saving Emma from having to come up with anything clever. He ahem-ed softly, ever the polite man. 

“Good morning, Mr. Humbert,” she said warmly, smiling as he stepped closer. “You seem better than last night.” 

“Aye,” he grinned, bowing his head briefly, unable to completely abandon his sense of duty to his princess. She had instructed the crew to treat her as their captain and not their sovereign, but it wasn't as easy for some. “I'm not too big a man to admit that I'll feel relieved to have land beneath my feet once again.” 

“The seafaring life isn't meant for everyone, Humbert,” Killian said, clapping the man on the shoulder, his voice a bit too bright. Emma looked over at him, somewhat surprised by the less-than-friendly tone to his voice, and she nearly smiled when she saw the look on his face. He seemed...proprietary, almost, but holding the feeling back. She'd seen that particular look many a time, that raring-to-fight for his friendship whenever a new person would try to insinuate themselves between the two of them. He had huffed when Emma began to spend time with Lady Ruby, grumbling that he did not understand why he was not invited to one of the young lady's afternoon teas, barely appeased when Emma made up for the time away from him by smuggling an entire basket of cakes pilfered from the castle kitchens to his room late one night. It had been soon after their big fight over swimming in a near state of undress together, that in-between time of awkwardness and discomfort in each other, Emma well aware that Killian was on his way to manhood and that she had expectations of her. Mother had gently suggested that it would not be a terrible thing to expand her friendships, perhaps find a young lady with whom she could share her more girlish urges, and while Emma had scoffed that never would there be a time she did not wish to share her thoughts and feelings with Killian, she had relented. The young and vivacious Lady Ruby had been invited to the castle, and Killian had tolerated the interloper. 

It soon became clear to one and all—the clearest to Emma and Killian and her parents—that she would never find a person in whose presence she found comfort more than young Killian Jones, and eventually the subject matter was dropped. But still, he seemed jealous of time she spent with any other than him. 

That same look of mutinous acceptance was on his face as he glowered at Graham Humbert, an affable but false smile gracing his lips. 

It was on the tip of Emma's tongue to scold him, that he had nothing to worry over, that nobody or no thing would ever come between them, but she had to admit: it was far too amusing to watch the masculine posturing. Graham straightened his back, Killian rose into his full, naval officer bearing, and Emma had to say—if there were two handsome and devoted men squabbling over her attentions, well. It was not the worst thing she could think of. 

A call from the crow's nest carried over the ship, interrupting the ridiculous and unnecessary display of manhood, and the entire crew burst with activity, preparing for docking at Fortuna Harbor. 

Emma, Killian, and Graham retreated to the captain's quarters, discussing plans between the three of them. Killian dropped his glowering posture once action was required. She could feel the need to do something emanating from him, the need to rescue his brother. He even turned to Graham, asking his opinion on the best way to go about their business, then turned to Emma, barely needing to speak a word as she affirmed or rejected his ideas. Graham smirked as he watched the two of them, his eyes darting between them with amusement as he watched them have one of their whirlwind conversations. It was a relief, the familiarity of it; one of them opening their mouth, the other nodding their head in approval or ridiculing the preposterous suggestion before it was even uttered. 

“We could find a stockpile of--” 

“You are no longer capable of two-handed swordplay, Quartermaster. What if we tried the Red Queen's Gambit--” 

“Not enough corsets.” 

“What about the--” 

“I already thought about that. Have you brought any rusted armor?” 

“That didn't work with Granny, and I doubt it will work with the Dark One.” 

“I suppose you are correct.” 

“I _know_ I am correct.” 

After grinning at that, Killian perched on the edge of the captain's writing desk, folding his arms and regarding her seriously. Graham had edged out of the conversation that did not include him, leaving the quarters with Emma barely acknowledging his absence. She took a deep breath, ignoring how well Killian looked in the simple act of leaning, and set her thoughts to figuring out their situation. 

Eventually (and with only a little bit of good-natured, happy arguing), a plan came to fruition: find the man Smee, ply him with alcohol and promises of royal pardons, and ascertain the secret entrance to the Dark One's fortress so that they might rescue Captain Liam Jones from his imprisonment. They eventually agreed that there was no need to come up with any elaborate plans until they had good information in their hands (“all three of them,” he'd grinned). 

They made their way back above deck, informing the crew of their new orders: several of them would filter about the town, listening for information regarding the whereabouts of the man Smee. Once his location was discovered, he would be quietly followed, making sure it was not a trap to capture the princess. Emma and Killian would make their way to the Rusty Compass, maintaining their cover story as the captain and quartermaster of a crew of rum-runners looking for new sources as their current well had been seized as spoils of war. Simple and efficient, and hardly likely to cast suspicion that they were anything but mercenaries seeking to profit from the war between the richest kingdom in the realm and the darkest wizard alive. 

But plans, simple as they may be, are bound to be wrecked. Several of the crew members who had gone out seeking information returned with distressing news: it seemed that there were many parties desiring to wrest power from her kingdom. Despite her parents' attempts to keep her absence as secret as possible, word had somehow got around that the princess of Misthaven had escaped, the tale of it growing with each telling. By the time it made the rounds on Fortuna, there were several hefty rewards being offered should anyone capture the wayward Princess Emma. Gossip takes on a life of its own, for there was also a price on the head of her royal highness's swain, (“Swain,” Killian had snorted)--the naïve young commander who had been bested by Rumplestiltskin. Money was offered for his death, presumably by the Dark One himself, but there was also a price for his live capture, the word being that the princess would likely do anything to have him alive. Which was true. 

This news did not disturb her in the slightest, nor did it deter her from wanting to continued with the mission, but it certainly set Killian on edge. 

“You can hardly go out amongst pirates now, _Captain_ ,” he said through gritted teeth. 

“I can take care of myself, _Quartermaster_ ,” she retorted hotly. “ _You're_ the one who cannot set foot in town; you were described as having 'eyes of the blue of the forget-me-not, elegant in diction and fair of face with a scar across his cheek and nothing where a hand ought to be.' You would be discovered in a trice, and I won't have it. The only description given of me was 'golden-haired, beautiful, possibly wearing breeches and with the bearing of true royalty.' That could be anyone.” 

“You _are_ golden-haired, beautiful, wearing breeches and possessing the bearing of true royalty.” 

In response to his heated glare, Emma relaxed her posture, thrusting her hips forward and resting her thumb at her waistband. She allowed a smile to curl her lips, her eyebrow lifting lazily. She had practiced this transformation in the restless weeks searching for Killian—losing her princess posture, the one instilled in her since she could sit. She conjured up an image of Killian from the first time she'd noticed him as a man, laughing into the sunshine as he made a washer woman's load easier, his arms flexing beneath the shirt he had been wearing. She could remember being astonished at the display of visible strength, and she had felt confused when she became more aware of her own body as a result. 

Emma channeled that feeling now as she turned to face him, swaggering in place, her hips canting toward him and her smile turning knowing. His eyes widened as he took her in; she did not wonder at the effect she was having on him. She knew. And she hoped it would have the same effect on anyone who might think her the princess. Princesses did not make themselves more available and inviting in such a fashion. At least not this one. 

“Men see what they wish, Killian. And I think they will not see a princess when they look upon me,” she told him, her voice softening. She needed him to see reason, needed him to remain aboard the ship where he would be safe, and in order for that to happen, she needed him to see that she could do just fine without him. She hated to say it, but his lack of hand would be a hindrance, if it identified him so readily. And she could see that he knew this, could see the defeat in his eyes. But he did not like it. 

He turned to Graham, his jaw clenching as he stared hard into the man's eyes. 

“You must protect her, Humbert. You must.” 

“Of course, Jones. I take my duty seriously.” 

Killian stepped toward him, crowding Graham's space, but to his credit, Graham did not back away. Emma was somewhat surprised when Killian's hand shot out, and as Graham clasped it firmly, she saw Killian's knuckles turn white in his grip. 

“Please, Mr. Humbert. Bring my princess back to me.” 

“I will that, Commander.” 

Emma made the decision to head to the Rusty Compass in search of their informant, with Graham taking the place of Killian. Killian, stubborn as ever, wanted to accompany them, but she would not risk it. She covered her terror at him being captured by pirates or kidnappers or worse with anger, commanding that he remain aboard the _Siren's Call_ until they returned with the needed information. She divided the crew, keeping half of them there, ostensibly, to prepare for heading out once again, but really, it was to keep an eye out for anyone asking too many questions. And to keep Killian from doing something rash. 

Emma sent several crew members out ahead of them to act as extra eyes in the tavern where they were to meet the informant Smee, not wishing to take any chances that someone might, indeed, think she was the missing princess of Misthaven; they would need reinforcements should things turn sideways. Killian watched her order everyone about with his arms crossed and his face grim, clearly unhappy with the ruination of their plan. She walked toward him, wishing to put him at ease, to remind him that she was well capable of taking care of herself, but the words stuck in her throat. Instead, images of him bound and being dragged away before she could tell him how she felt assaulted her, and she had to shut down the terrifying thoughts. She took a deep breath and stepped close to him, not having a care what it appeared like to her crew. 

“For the gods' and my sake, Killian,” she breathed in his ear. “Stay below deck. If I return to find you've been captured, I shall be far too angry at you to come find you once again.” 

“And you come back to me,” he growled back, his breath hot and angry against her neck. “I don't know how I would face your mother should you be forced into marriage to a crocodile's son.” She smiled at that but it was a smile of worry as she turned to face him, having to gulp back a breath at his nearness. She looked into his eyes—the eyes she had dreamt of often enough during all of their separations—and she saw many things there: irritation, and worry. Anger, which she understood all too well. 

And love. In his eyes, she saw the love that had burned for her ever since they were children. She wanted nothing more than to kiss him then, to show him that she, too, loved, but it was hardly the time and besides, the entire crew was watching. 

She could feel Killian's eyes on her back as she and Graham left the ship, resisting the urge to turn around, but only just barely. She wished it were Killian at her side, longed for his reassuring presence and the extra protection. Emma knew she would fare fine in a fight, as would Graham; but she trusted no one with her own well-being more than Killian Jones, absolutely no one. 

Emma had never been farther than Misthaven before her mission to find Killian began, and the dockside village of the pirate haven of Fortuna was as far from her kingdom as could be, both in distance and circumstance. It was rougher, less clean, and far more interesting. Men and women of all colors and states of dress were all around, calling out to one another in harsh tongues—some amused, others angry, all vaguely threatening. Emma rested her hand on the pommel of her sword, the thumb on her other hand sliding along her waistband to her back, feeling the reassuring handle of the dagger Killian had handed to her “in case it is needed” just before she left. 

Graham spotted the Rusty Compass first, a ramshackle building several dark alleys away from any view of the docks. Emma wished she had more information, had asked the crew to scout the place and report back to her first, but now was not the time for second-guessing herself. She took a deep breath and swaggered into the tavern first, not holding the door open for Graham as she went. A cutthroat rum runner would hardly have such courtesy, she figured. She must act the part if she wished to pass for one of the other seedy characters in the bar. 

She paid no heed to her four crew members seated in various strategic places, one near the door, one embroiled in a hand of cards, one with her skirts hitched above her knee and flipping a nasty-looking dagger in the air to the cheers of several dirt-encrusted men. The fourth—Lancelot—sat in a corner with his back to the wall, his eyes on everyone and everything. Emma trusted Lancelot nearly as much as Graham and Killian, and she was glad that Killian had insisted the knight be the eyes watching her back in the place of Graham. 

Father had told her that Smee could be identified by his bright red stocking cap, and the signal would be to order “dark rum, the good stuff from under the counter.” She seated herself at the bar and Graham sat next to her, leaning close to whisper in her ear as they had decided to do. The original plan was for she and Killian to act with a sense of familiarity to discourage anyone from approaching her; she did not feel as comfortable doing so with Graham, but she had little choice. She smiled knowingly each time the man whose duty it was to protect her murmured in her ear, his words short descriptions of likely sources of trouble and warnings to not appear so anxious. As she smiled provocatively at Graham's words and occasionally let out a lusty laugh, Emma's eyes darted about surreptitiously, looking for the man they were supposed to meet. Graham touched her hair; she put her hand on his thigh. They kept up with the pretense of being together, sipping their rum and keeping an eye out but still, no red-capped man appeared. 

“This seat taken?” she heard on her other side, and she silently sighed in relief. It had been nearly an hour that they'd arrived, Emma drinking her rum at a slow pace in order to keep her wits about her. She turned to face the new man and her smile faltered; he was a large and leering creature, and his bald pate shone dully in the dim light from a lantern hanging overhead. Smee was a small man, she had been told; this could not be him. 

“Sod off, mate,” Graham said, his voice low and threatening. Emma straightened her back before gesturing at the barkeep. 

“A drink for your trouble,” she grinned, doing her best to keep panic from escaping out her throat. 

“Maybe the lady seeks something stronger,” the man supplied, sneering at Graham before turning his wicked countenance to her. “Or someone who knows what to do with such a tight little thing.” 

“Maybe the lady isn't interested.” 

“Maybe the lady can speak for herself,” Emma cut in, despairing that the mission might be over before it began. She could feel the thrill of battle coursing up her spine; she squared her shoulders and ran her hand under her coat, her fingers resting on the handle of the dagger Killian had given her. Silently, she thanked him for always knowing when she was in danger, even before it occurred. 

And then, as if thinking of him had summoned him from where he was supposed to be hiding, she heard his voice. 

“Why, Captain Swan. As I live and breathe.” The chatter in the tavern seemed to fade away, perhaps because he sounded like he was full of fight. 

She could kill him. 

“And you, Hunter, you utter git. Didn't I tell you if I ever saw your ugly face again that I'd sink me hook in your neck?” 

As one, Emma, Graham, and the large hulking man next to her turned on their stools. Emma nearly dropped her jaw when she saw Killian standing before them, his posture defensive and his eyebrows sky-high. 

It was Killian, but it wasn't. He was dressed in his pirate togs, but he looked more the part. He stood with one thumb hooked at his belt buckle, his hips jutting forward, swaggering while standing in place in an imitation of her earlier example. His hair, while never prone to obedience, was usually combed in a semblance of respectability; now it was disheveled, sticking up in artful disarray, as if someone (some _woman_ ) had been tugging on it. His gaze seemed narrower, more assessing, more dangerous—she realized he had lined his eyes in black, and she wondered where he'd found face paint in a pirate town. He lifted his arm to point at her, wagging his finger in admonishment, and she noticed he sported several large, gaudy rings. Rings! 

But the most surprising part of his transformation was the shiny hook where his hand had once been. It was curved and elegant, and sharpened to a wicked point. 

He stepped forward, his eyes darting over to the large man on Emma's right. 

“Problem, mate?” He inspected his fingernails while raising the hook lazily, picking underneath one of the nails before fixing the man with a glare. He did not lower his hook and instead pointed it in the man's direction, turning his wrist this way and that, the threat clear. “Do I need to deal with two assholes who want what's mine, rather than the one?” 

The hulking pirate fixed his eyes on the hook before darting down to the blade Killian wore at his hip. He seemed to think for a moment before grinning, turning to Graham and grunting, “I've 'eard tales of this one, this Captain 'ook. They say he's the devil himself, the son of Davy Jones. Good luck to ye, mate.” Then he looked over at Emma and gave her entire body a once-over that made her shiver with the relief of a crisis averted before saying, “She looks worth it.” 

“That she is,” Killian murmured before turning his body toward Graham. His eyes he kept on Emma, however. She noticed that much of the tavern was watching the interplay with interest, many of them with eyes wide and trained on the hook. How had word of him spread so quickly? Pirates, it would seem, were a gossipy bunch. She hoped against hope that none of them would see through their subterfuge. 

“Swan,” Killian said grimly, but the twinkle in his eyes belied the gravity in his voice. She really could kill him. He was enjoying himself! 

“Hook,” she huffed, folding her arms over her chest. 

“Tell your friend here to fuck off.” 

“I will not.” 

“He did not learn the last time that I will always come for what's mine.” Killian was speaking loudly enough to be heard; his voice was darker, rougher than she'd ever heard it. She hated to admit it, but it was quite appealing. 

“I am not your property.” 

“Maybe _you_ should go, _mate_ ,” Graham said, and Emma nearly laughed. Graham was nowhere near as threatening as Killian. He was far too nice. 

Killian turned to Graham and gave him a very disarming smile; Emma could see Graham fighting off a smile of his own, and she had to kick him with her boot to prevent it from happening. 

“I'll meet with you later,” she said pointedly, attempting to convey an order without speaking. He tilted his head to the side, his eyes flashing with understanding before he got to his feet. 

“This isn't over, _pirate_ ,” Graham sneered, his accent far too fine for such a threat, but he pulled it off tolerably well. He poked Killian in the chest two times for good measure before stalking off; Emma was not sure whether she wanted to laugh or to cry. She watched him go, hoping he had understood that she needed him to prepare the ship for a swift departure in the event things did not transpire as planned. 

“Finally,” Killian grumbled, stepping closer to her and leaning down to tap her on the nose. “Thought the blackguard would never leave.” 

“He is not a bad man, Hook,” she sighed, knowing some were still listening to them. She turnedg on her stool and slugged back the rest of her rum, wondering how many more she could consume before it became a problem. 

“He is not the man for you,” he retorted, heaving himself down to Graham's vacated seat. 

“And you are?” she said dryly, wondering if they were still acting. 

“I don't know how to break this to you, Swan,” he said, leaning forward until his lips were at her throat, “but I'm the _only_ man for you.” 

“Do not oversell it, _Hook_ ,” she hissed, feeling how close he was and hoping she was not blushing. She glanced over her shoulder to check whether they were still being watched by the other tavern patrons, and also to have an excuse to lean away from him; Emma feared she would ruin their ruse were she to continue to play act with him. His nearness was too confusing, and she needed to keep her head. 

But Killian, it seemed, had other ideas. He turned until he was facing her, his legs flanking her side, his smile so very like Killian and yet challenging, smirking; flirtatious. She wondered whether it was a side of him that she had yet to see, or whether he was simply an excellent actor. 

“I'd almost forgotten how beautiful you are,” he said, reaching out to twirl a lock of her hair with his fingers. Emma nearly laughed when one of the strands wound around his ridiculous rings. He had to wiggle his fingers to release it, making her squeak with the slight pain. 

“Sorry.” He grinned before leaning in and saying in a soft voice, “I'm afraid I'm not quite able to pull this off. I do apologize for pulling your hair just then, love.” Her breath had caught when he leaned in, his whisper-soft voice like a caress against her neck. 

“You're doing fine, _ass_ ,” she said, hoping her words covered up her near breathless state. She was not certain whether it was his now-rakish appearance or if it was simply her newly realized love for him coupled by the long separation, but Emma was feeling light-headed and giddy, happy to be with Killian in any circumstance much less the exciting one they found themselves in. 

He reared back, his eyes darting to hers, but he must have seen what he was looking for because he smiled at her—not the leering pirate smile, but the young Killian Jones smile, the one he always wore for her. “I hope you won't remain mad, Swan.” 

“ _Hunter_ and I were doing just fine before you came along,” she said pointedly, knowing he was in full understanding. She was furious with him for exposing himself, for putting himself in danger. Again. 

“He shouldn't be at your side when I'm far better suited,” he said jovially. She thought he was perhaps overdoing it, but then again, anyone could have been listening in. 

“Wherever did you find those rings?” she asked, not needing to affect the grin pulling at her lips. She reached over to caress them, enjoying herself immensely. Especially when she could discern his held breath, could see the way his chest heaved because his shirt was open and displaying his body to full advantage. 

“Wouldn't you like to know,” he said, his murmur low and thrilling. He rested the back of his hand on the bar top and curled two fingers up; the barkeep was there in an instant, pouring out two more measures of rum. Emma raised her brows at that; it was as if Killian commanded everyone around him, his pirate-like appearance and wicked-looking hook fair warning should anyone cross him. 

“Yes, I would—Captain Hook.” His mouth curled at the corner and his eyes danced as he leaned forward, his mouth mere inches from hers as he spoke. 

“Sailors love to talk the moment they set foot ashore, love. A few well-worded threats to the right sea dogs, and I knew the tales of my villainy would spread the length and breadth of this island by nightfall. Handily done, hmm?” He leaned back in satisfaction, stretching out his legs and once again hooking his thumb in his belt. The movement brought him in contact with her legs, and she felt the warmth of him between the layers of leather and wool. She near shivered at the feeling; many times they had touched, many times they had held hands. They'd danced, their bodies near to touching as they moved. They'd sparred, sometimes without weaponry, and they'd hoisted each other into every tree in Misthaven. But never once had they sat thus, their thighs touching, their hands reaching out in imitation (or was it imitation?) of lusty intimacy. She had to shake herself from the pull of his gaze, sitting back to rest her elbow on the bar as she took another sip from her drink. 

As she ordered another, Emma took a moment to appreciate his appearance, her eyes roving over his form. He did look well, she could admit it; the black-rimmed eyes that stared at her seemed almost menacing, or full of ill-intent. Though he was leaning toward her, affecting a louche and insouciant posture, she could still see her friend underneath the act, and it made her smile knowingly. He was enjoying their ruse as much as she; wistfully, she wished it were not an act, that they were as they appeared—a man, a handsome and dangerous man, and the woman he was quite familiar with who happened to love him. 

They continued to lean toward the other, murmuring inconsequential observations and sipping their drinks as they waited. The man Smee did not make an appearance, and as time went on, Emma began to feel slight apprehension curdling beneath the buzz of the rum in her body. 

It was when another man approached that she knew she ought to stop drinking; just when Killian nosed around in her ear, whispering a story about how Liam had over-imbibed on the anniversary of his commission and had mistaken one of the crew for his sweetheart back in Misthaven, a grubby hand reached out and tapped him on the shoulder. 

“Yer in me seat.” 

Killian lifted away from Emma and looked at the man; Emma stiffened, not wishing to court trouble. 

“Away with you.” He turned back to her, seemingly unaffected by the interruption, but she could feel the tension in his legs, his knees still resting on either side of her along the length of her thigh. 

“That's a tasty wench ye've got there,” said the man. Emma resisted the urge to shudder; his accent was thick, and his stench was strong enough to stick in her nostrils. 

“I said fuck off, mate.” Killian sounded relaxed, almost bored; Emma marveled at his ability to remain in character. He reached up and wound his fingers in her hair, this time his rings avoiding entanglement. He tugged on her locks twice before allowing the hair to slip through his grasp. He turned to the man, sneering as he continued. “Before I run you through.” She could see the glint of his hook as he lifted it slightly, turning it to catch the flickering light from the overhead lantern. 

Not wishing for any trouble, Emma affected her most annoyed face and turned to the man. He looked truly awful, and she balked at the thought of Killian fighting for her in some mistaken sense of honor-bound duty. 

“Not interested.” She then turned back to Killian, reaching out to grasp his collar and pull him toward her, ignoring the slight tremble in her fingers. “This pirate is quite man enough for me.” 

“Is that so?” the man growled. Emma despaired when Killian's reached for the sword at his side. 

“Aye, as you see.” Killian turned to the man again, Emma's fingers slipping from his coat as he turned. “But perhaps we ought to step outside to settle this like gentlemen? 'Twould be bad form for me to run you through in front of the lady here, and all.” There was unmistakeable warning in his voice, and she thrilled at it, unlike Killian as it was. She had a sudden vision of him in the heat of battle, how fierce he must be. She almost wished to see him in action. Almost. 

“You're quite mouthy, ain'tcha?” 

Emma looked out into the crowded tavern for her crew; she noticed that Lancelot had advanced several tables, perhaps sensing trouble the moment it began. The others, too, had come closer; Emma felt herself stiffen, her own hand reaching for the dagger at her back. 

Others had noticed the approaching conflict, some looking on with interest, some leering, others backing away. Emma suddenly realized that all of the tales she'd ever heard of brawls in bars and squabbling pirates might come to fruition right before her very eyes, and all because Killian could not keep his damned mouth shut. She decided to act fast, knowing she would need to surprise him into stopping in order to prevent conflict. 

“Hook,” she sighed, bringing her lips to his cheek. “I'm very tired. Take me to bed.” 

She heard him draw a sharp breath through his nose, felt his body stiffen beneath her. Then she felt the scratch of his whiskers as he smiled, and her heart sank at his next words. 

“Hear that? My lady has need of me. So get the fuck out of my way.” 

That was when all hell broke loose. 

Before she knew it, Killian had risen, coming to stand directly in front of her, protecting her from the sudden fight that had broken out in the entire tavern. It seemed that pirates in droves could smell the oncoming fight, and like sharks, it excited them in a frenzy. Emma saw a chair flying through the air, even as she heard Killian draw his blade, cursing up a storm when the leering man attacked. 

She slid to the left, drawing her own sword, her eyes constantly roving and assessing any threats. It seemed that most of the bar patrons were busy in their own squabbles, however, none of them paying attention to the ones who'd started the fight in the first place. 

“Captain Swan,” came the curt voice of Sir Lancelot. Relieved, Emma nodded at him once before turning her eyes to her wayward fake pirate, shaking her head when he seemed in his element. His sword sang as he danced with the real pirate; he even waved his hook about for affect. He was thoroughly enjoying himself, the lout. 

“Get him out of here,” Emma hissed, unwilling to allow Lancelot to guide her out of the bar and to the safety of their ship. She knew his first duty was to his princess, but her first and only duty was making sure that the idiot she was quite in love with did not die at the hands of a leering pirate while dressed in head-to-toe leather. She'd be damned if she'd suffer through watching him die. 

Finally, Killian knocked the man out and turned to her with a grin. 

“My lady, it would seem that we did not get what we came for. Shall we retreat?” he said cheekily, offering his left arm as though they were out for a stroll, not a care in the world. Emma simply shook her head before hastily taking his arm, needing to step away from three men embroiled in what amounted to a lot of rolling around on the floor. Killian laughed, swiftly bringing them to the door. She noticed that the other crew members were already there, Lancelot at their backs as they beat a hasty path back to the ship. 

“So the dreaded Captain Hook makes good on his reputation,” said a deep voice as its owner stepped in their path, covering the doorway. Emma groaned in frustration. It was the bald-headed man from earlier, the one who'd made her nervous. The one Killian had warned off with his threatening bravado. 

“Mate,” Killian sighed, raising his sword once again. “I want nothing more than to take my lady home. Do remove yourself from my sight.” 

“I don't think I will,” the man retorted. 

“Oh, we don't have time for this,” Emma snapped, drawing her dagger and flipping it until it landed on her palm, blade-side pointing toward her. She flipped it again, her fingers wrapping around the hilt and then pointing it down low. “Move, or lose the cock.” 

“ _Nice_ ,” Killian laughed in disbelief, and she laughed herself, glad she still had the power to shock him. She looked up at the bald man, raising one eyebrow as he stared her down. 

Then he cracked a smile and stepped aside, sweeping out an arm to indicate their freedom. 

She thought she heard him chuckle, “Luckiest sumbitch I ever met,” as she went, but she could not be certain. 

She felt such relief as they walked away with long strides that when her arm began to sting, she almost ignored it. Only almost. The sting was preceded by a hiss and a bang and a bellowed, “You bitch!” Just like that—hiss, bang, bitch, sting. She clasped her shoulder and was surprised to feel wetness there; she looked up for rain and saw none, but what she did see when she looked back down surprised her greatly. 

Her hand was covered in blood. 

She staggered, her head feeling quite fuzzy and the need to sit down suddenly overwhelming her in its ferocity. 

“Killian,” she whispered, and then things went black. 

* * *

“You're going to fall,” he laughed. Emma looked down at him, her mouth opening on an angry retort as she climbed higher and higher. 

“Will not.” She could hear the petulance in her own voice and did not care; Killian was always trying to get her to be careful, and she did not like it. She could take care of herself, she'd told him so over and over. Still holding onto one branch of the tree, she reached down with her free hand and hitched her skirt up a bit higher, tucking the raised hem more firmly into her waist. 

“You oughtn't to climb trees in a dress, Emma,” she heard from somewhere below her, and that annoyed her. 

“And you oughtn't to distract me when I'm in such a precarious position,” she retorted before grinning. “I could fall, you know.” 

“You are ridiculous, and I'm going to go now.” 

She looked down, feeling frantic. But when her eyes met his, she had to hold back a smile; he didn't seem to be moving, still there, still following her as he'd been for years now. He grinned and nodded his encouragement, and that more than anything made her reach for the next branch. She took a deep breath and lifted her knee, steadying her foot on the sturdiness of the tree. The position was tricky, but she knew she would be just fine. They'd decided to climb the tallest tree in the forest together, and together they would. 

“Oh,” she breathed once she'd reached the thick arm, reaching up to wrap her arms around another obliging branch. A minute later, Killian was beside her, stepping onto the same branch and leaning toward her for support. She looked at him and he looked at her, their grins mirrors of each other as they looked at the broad vista of the castle before them. 

“Will you miss me much, do you think?” she whispered unthinkingly, regretting it the moment the words escaped her lips. She hadn't meant to bring it up, hadn't wanted to think on it, but the answering dismay on Killian's face brought it all back—the feelings. He looked so sad and forlorn, so unlike his usual laughing self that she wished to take the words back. Then searing anger seethed through her blood, and she wished to throw the words in his face. He was, after all, the one who was leaving her. 

“Oh, Emma,” he murmured. He unwrapped one hand from the branch before them and slowly reached out, his fingers trailing across her face before tucking a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. “You know I will.” 

“Grand adventure on the high seas won't make you forget all about this silly girl back home?” She bit her lip, already knowing the answer to his question but wanting— _needing_ —to hear it, nonetheless. 

“Nothing could make me forget the girl back home,” he told her softly, and while her initial inclination was to make a joke to ease the sudden tension between them, she found that she could not do it. Instead, she smiled at him, no artifice in the action, and no discomfort filling her, despite the disturbing tingle she could still feel where his hand had touched her face. 

“Love, no. Emma, _no_ ,” he said, desperation in his voice. She could see panic on his beloved face as he shook her frantically. “Not like this, Emma.” He pulled his hand away and she was confused when she saw blood on his fingers. “You will not die. I shall not allow it. Emma, _I do not give you leave to die_.” 

“Not planning on it,” she told him, feeling a sharp pressure tweak her heart something awful. She reached up to clutch at her chest and found that she could not move her arms. 

“Emma, dearest. You cannot leave me. I love you so.” 

He did? 

She smiled, the pain in her heart easing somewhat, a new lightness fluttering across her entire chest, leaving wonderful little prickles in its wake. 

“Killian,” she murmured, wanting to caress his face as he was now caressing hers. She felt like she was flying and then falling, and then her face was pressed into the leather at his shoulder. She realized she was in his arms, and she thought she felt rain trickle down on her face as they went. She reached up, finally able to move but surprised at how weak her arm was; giving up on clutching at the leather collar of his coat, she simply allowed him to carry her, smiling at the feeling of safety she felt as he whisked her away.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi! so, look for another update this week. i'm on a writing streak, hot diggity! also come say hi on tumblr, i'm this-too-too-sullied-flesh.

“You gave us quite a scare, your highness.”

Killian nearly laughed. Whatever his faults (and truly, the man did not seem to possess many), Graham Humbert was a master of the understatement.  


“''Twas a mere flesh wound, hardly worth mentioning,” Emma grumbled, attempting to sit and wincing.  


“Emma, lie down,” Killian said with exasperation, but inwardly, he felt light and warm all over. She was going to be just fine _._  


Killian had experienced few bouts with true terror in his life. Watching Liam fall in battle had been the worst for years—until he found himself carrying the love of his life while her blood soaked the arm of his coat and dripped onto the leg of his pants. Both times he felt helpless fury fill him with an unquellable rage, but this time, he eschewed vengeance in favor of saving the life of the person dearest to his heart.  


He had carried her through the dark streets of Fortuna, desperation giving him the strength to run back to the ship. Desperation, and determination that she _would not die_ giving his legs the fortitude to make it.  


He ignored the alarmed shouts of the crew as he practically dove across the gangplank, sneering at any in his path. The look on his face coupled with the princess in his arms must have been enough to scatter the men and women, for he made it to her bed in no time, carefully depositing her across the messy counterpane and taking a moment to assess her condition.  


He pressed his fingers to the thick vein at her neck, swallowing in relief at the steady pulse he felt there. He hadn't realized that the bullet had not gone through her body, more like tore the flesh from her arm, the blood soaking her shirt and coat the only thing on which he could focus. He had felt terror threatening to pull his legs out from under him, having to shove the thoughts of _what if she dies in my arms_ deep down inside as he ran with his precious cargo.  


Thankfully, he did not need to bark orders, turning to do just that when one of the crew rushed in with a bowl of water, towels, and rum. The person who brought the supplies—an eager young woman named Tink—attempted to get Killian to move, but he wasn't having it.  


“I'll do that,” he snapped, aware he was being less than courteous and not giving a damn. He grabbed a set of scissors from Tink's hand and used them to cut away the fabric of Emma's coat, careful not to move her too much as he worked.  


“Killian, what—” Emma mumbled, her eyelashes fluttering as she tried to rise. He could have cried, he was so relieved to see her wake, though her eyes were glassy with pain and confusion. He would give anything to take the pain from her, would spare her any discomfort, and as frustration and helplessness threatened to take over, relied edged in, easing his frayed nerves and making him less stiff and implacable.  


“Thank the gods,” he breathed, his eyes briefly closing before he leaned down. He knew he needed to be careful, that he ought not jostle her too much, but he needed to touch her, needed to assure himself that she was going to be all right and to feel her breathe on his face. So, he pressed his forehead to hers, ignoring for the moment the sweat at her brow and how her skin felt too warm to the touch. He closed his eyes and allowed his own breath to brush across her lips; it took everything in him to not kiss her, to not press his lips to hers and will every breath that kept him alive to flow into her, to keep her safe, to keep her from leaving him.  


When he pulled away she had closed her eyes again, but her brow was wrinkled. He reached out to sweep his thumb along the lines of concern, feeling his heart stutter when she smiled slightly in response.  


“I was shot.”  


“You were.”  


“Is it bad?”  


 _Never in my days have I been so terrified_ , he thought. He did not say that aloud, however; he needed to be strong for her, he needed to be reassuring.  


But his eyes must have spoken volumes, for her face crumpled slightly before he could speak.  


“Killian,” she whispered. “It hurts.”  


“I know, love,” he said gently. “I know. All will be well.” He reached over and brushed his fingertips along her cheek, feeling her smile beneath his touch. He tucked her hair behind her ear, slightly puzzled when she grinned broadly.  


“This is hardly a laughing matter, Emma.”  


“I was just remembering that time before you left for the navy, when we climbed the tallest tree in the Enchanted Forest.”  


“What made you think of that?” he said, smiling despite himself. Tink _ahem_ -ed, and he shook his head. Now was not the time for fond remembrance.  


“All right, love,” he said, putting steel into his voice, for he knew what was to come next. He may never have suffered a gunshot, but he'd been patched up enough to dread the pain Emma was about to endure. “Time to act the good little pirate.” He reached for the flask brought to him by Tink and removed the cork. “Drink up.”  


“I have been drinking all evening.”  


“Aye, that's why you are bleeding so freely.” He was speaking so gently that he wondered whether she could hear him; clearing his throat, he spoke louder, knowing that what was to come would distress her for the pain and him for being the cause of it. “The shot did not pierce your body; it merely grazed your flesh. You are still bleeding, though, and I shall have to clean the wound. You're quite lucky, highness.” He grinned, though he felt anything but joy in the telling. “Even so, I do not wish to cause you more pain, and we need to bind your shoulder straight away. So, here.” He brought the flask to her lips, raising his eyebrows to indicate she should drink. She sighed and lifted her head from the pillow, wincing as she moved. He tipped the flask carefully, waiting for her to swallow.  


“That's a good lass.”  


Corking the flask once again, he took a deep breath, knowing what needed to be done and not wishing to proceed. He moved quickly, issuing orders, aware that he was ordering both Emma and Tink about, but returning to his commander's voice came naturally in times of distress.  


He leaned over, raising Emma's shoulders quickly but as gently as he was able, nearly barking at Tink for not stuffing pillows behind her back quickly enough, for he needed to raise her shoulder above the level of her heart to prevent further blood loss. Then he took a deep breath, crooking a smile he did not truly feel when she raised her eyebrows at his next order.  


“I'm afraid that shirt needs to come off.”  


“Rather forward, Commander.”  


“Dammit, Emma,” he said gruffly, knowing he was flushed and wishing he could take a swig from the flask as well. “I need to move it off your shoulder to clean--”  


“Do what you must,” she sighed, closing her eyes and wrinkling her brow. “It hurts,” she whispered. “Be swift.”  


“Yell all you want,” he told her, and he set about his business. He knew enough from many battles fought and many injuries tended that her wound was not fatal so long as she did not get the blood fever, and for that he was glad than could be articulated. Still, he wished they had thought to bring along a physician, or someone better trained in the medical arts, or even a sorceress. _Liam would know what to do_ , he thought, and then, _but we failed to get the needed information to find him_. He shook the thought away. It would have to wait for another time.  


Quickly, he undid some of the buttons on Emma's shirt, trying his best to keep a cool head and not think about what he was doing. It was not sexual and he did not have inappropriate reactions, but still. This was Emma, this was his _princess_ , and he needed to tread carefully. He used the scissors to cut away the necessary fabric, trying to keep his face neutral despite the amount of blood smeared across her perfect, creamy flesh.  


Once enough of her shoulder and arm was exposed, he accepted the warm and wet towel from his assistant, cleansing the wound as best he could. The bullet had grazed the side of her arm just below her shoulder, nearly going through. The gash was violent and jagged; he could feel her pain as if it were his own when she tensed as he carefully felt around to the back of her arm where the wound ended. He braced himself for the next part, knowing he was about to cause her excruciating pain, having been through it himself. He grimaced and she smiled in response, lifting her hand to cup his cheek.  


“I know, Killian. It's all right.”  


“Nothing about this is right, Emma.”  


“Just do it. Wait!” He nearly dropped the flask he had been holding at her outburst.  


“Dammit, do not startle me!”  


“Well, do your job correctly,” she grumbled. “Give me something upon which to bite.” He felt chagrin descend; _stupid, stupid_. He took a deep breath, willing himself to calm, to not rush. Errors occurred when one rushed an important task. Looking about, he felt crestfallen when there was nothing in the immediate vicinity that would not hurt Emma's teeth when she bit down.  


“Killian,” she said with weary exasperation, chuckling at his blind idiocy. “Your belt.”  


“Right.” Even when bleeding and hurt, Emma kept a cool head. He stood, reaching down to undo the buckle with his hand. Emma raised her eyebrow and grinned as he drew the leather from his breeches before seating himself once again at her side.  


“Undressing before your princess again, Commander?”  


He shook his head, feeling light surging through him. If she was making jokes, then she was going to be just fine. Ignoring the cough-smothering laughter coming from behind him, he held the belt in front of Emma's mouth and she bit down, moving her jaw back and forth steadily once he'd placed the leather between her teeth.  


“Steady now,” he murmured, more to himself than to her. He wished for the first time since losing it that he had use of his left hand so that he could be more certain in his actions, for this was Emma, and he couldn't fuck it up. If he made some error, somehow caused her more pain or permanent damage, he would never forgive himself. _She_ would, he knew that, but he would not.  


“Commander, I can do that--”  


“Shove off, Tink.”  


“Yes, sir,” came the voice from behind him, though she sounded uncertain and ready to object.  


“If anyone is going to mar the perfect flesh of the princess of Misthaven, it is me,” he told her.  


“Don't worry, Tink,” Emma said, her words muffled by the strap of leather between her teeth. She spit it out and turned to grin at the woman behind his back. “I'd rather punch him than you, anyway.”  


He shook his head and chuckled, her cheery words giving him the fortitude to continue. He put the belt back in place and flicked her nose before taking one more steadying breath. Then he reached for the flask handed him by Tink, and he held it over the gash in Emma's shoulder.  


* * *

When he first began to visit the castle as a child, Killian had been surprised at the energy of the young princess that was his new friend. He had been perpetually amazed at how high she would climb, how quickly she would run, how she could twirl in a field of grass for hours without seeming to tire. She was constantly on the move, never settling in one place for very long. It was why the first time he'd seen her ill and in bed, he had been unsettled for days, feeling sick to his own stomach at the thought that his boisterous and noisy little friend did not seem inclined to move.

“Does it hurt much?” he had whispered upon setting his head next to hers on her pillow. He'd waited until her nurse had fallen asleep, Leroy having barred the dirty young boy from the village from entering the princess's chambers while she was unwell, sniffing at the impropriety and the nerve of the little scoundrel barging into the castle and demanding to see his friend.  


Emma's eyes had been rheumy with fever, her hair more tangled than usual. She nodded at him solemnly, coughed weakly. He had climbed the wall under her bedroom, determined to see her, and caring not that he might fall. He had heard that she was sick with the Fever, and he had heard the fervent and whispered prayers of church-goers for their princess, that she live through it, that the Queen and King be spared losing their only child in such an infamous manner.  


“Emma cannot die,” Killian had told his mother haughtily. He could remember feeling incredulous at the time, could remember wondering why adults insisted on lying so often. He had refused Mother's comforting embrace, only wishing to see his friend. He knew that were he at her side, she could not die. So, he was determined to get to her.  


That was the first time he had climbed into her bedroom window.  


He had awakened the following morning to the sound of muffled sobs. He rose to his elbows, at first confused at his surroundings, the rich and ornate furniture and high ceiling something to which he was not accustomed. Then he remembered where he was. He turned, smiling broadly when he saw Emma sitting up with the blanket tucked under her arms. Her father was feeding her clear broth from a bowl, and her mother was crying happily behind him, her hand on the King's shoulder.  


“Told you, Mother,” Emma had croaked. She smiled wanly at Killian before reaching over to tug on his ear. “I needed Killian in order to get well. You oughtn't've kept him from seeing me, you know.”  


“We know, darling,” her mother had smiled, her usually-cheerful voice wavering slightly. And then—a thing he would not forget to the day he died—the Queen of Misthaven had come over to his side of the bed, taken his hand, and curtsied deeply. She gave him a smile that nearly rivaled that of Emma whenever she conquered a particularly troublesome tree. “Never again. We promise.”  


“And you,” Emma said, turning to face Killian, her small face suddenly looking quite fierce. “You took far too long.”  


“Never again,” he had promised.  


“Killian,” Emma said, her words again muffled around the belt, bringing him back to the present. “Do you have someplace else to be?”  


“My apologies, my lady,” he murmured, bracing himself. Without warning, he tipped the flask over her wound, feeling his heart rend into pieces when she cried out, her entire body tensing with pain and her eyes squeezing tight. Blood seeped from the ugly wound and Tink came forward to dab at it, her small face looking pale and grim.  


“Now the back,” he murmured, looking right into Emma's eyes as she opened them. When a tear fell down the side of her face he caught it on the tip of his finger, vowing to himself that he would never again make her cry in pain. He feared he could not bear being the cause of such a thing again.  


With Tink's help, he rolled Emma to her side, then carefully peeled away the rest of her coat and shirt. The wound ended just beyond the side of her arm, but much of the blood had pooled at her back as she lay.  


“I'll clean, you hold,” Tink said firmly, and he merely nodded, wanting to do it himself but knowing he could better service the princess were he to hold her in place and let the diminutive woman work. Emma had closed her eyes and he leaned forward, bracing his one good hand at the small of her back, his other arm going around her to brace against the bed, the hook carefully pointed away from his love. It was as near an embrace as he dared, and he allowed himself to lean further, his face mere inches above her ear.  


“Almost done,” he murmured, wishing he could offer more comfort than mere words. Emma nodded, her eyes still closed. He could feel the steady and quickened pace of both her heart and her breathing, and he worried he was causing her more undue pain. Was he leaning on her too much? Was his body too much for her?  


“It'll need stitching,” Tink said, rising abruptly and setting the bloodied cloths aside. “I'll go fetch a needle and catgut.” He nodded, sitting up and moving his bad arm to brace her body. He picked up a fresh towel and gently dabbed at her freshly cleaned skin, trying not to notice how much of it he was seeing, touching.  


“One more time, love.” He steeled himself as he poured the rum once again, guilt that he was thankful he could not see her face descending as her body tensed, her back arching once again in pain.  


Tink was not back immediately, and it was just on the tip of his tongue to begin barking out, rage filling him at his assistant's slow pace. Did she not appreciate that Emma was in pain? Was she not worried over her princess? Was he the only one who cared?  


“Commander! Your highness! I mean, Captain Swan! Oh, sod it. There is a man asking for you!”  


“Send him away,” Killian grunted, grabbing the needle from Tink's grasp and wondering how he was going to thread it. He hadn't really attended to the woman's excited words, hadn't realized that there ought to be no one who knew to ask for the princess on an island full of pirates.  


Tink grabbed the needle from him, setting about threading it while she eyed him skeptically.  


“I'll do the stitching, Commander. The man refuses to leave, insists on speaking with either you or the princess. Commander. Commander! He is wearing a red knit cap.”  


“Oh,” he heard Emma gasp. He looked down in time to see her wince as she turned her head to meet his gaze; she spit out the belt, her words clear and excited as she spoke. “Killian. It must be Smee! Go get the information. Killian, it won't have all been in vain! I won’t have been shot for nothing!”  


“All right,” he said, nodding. “After you are stitched up.”  


“Killian,” Emma said. She sounded so much like the exasperated Emma that he knew and loved, the only woman in the world who could speak to him with such fond frustration, and he loved her the more for it. “I'm going to be just fine. I give you leave. Go. We must save Liam.” She gasped when without warning, Tink sank the needle into her flesh. Killian gasped, too, wishing again that he could take her pain as his own and feeling the old scar on his back tickle and tingle as the needle pierced the other side. He watched Tink quickly and nimbly sew up the jagged edges of Emma's flesh, feeling utterly helpless and utterly useless as he did so.  


“Killian,” Emma said through gritted teeth. “Go.” He nodded, slightly mesmerized as the ugly wound began its journey toward mending. _She is going to be fine,_ his mind told him, and he sighed. His body, tense for what seemed an age, relaxed very slightly.  


“Quartermaster. Go. You've a duty to perform. Ogle my back some other time.”  
  
“Fine.” He turned to stomp away, feeling a grin twitching at the corner of his mouth, but Emma's voice stopped him.

“You—you will come back, won't you?”  


“Of course.”  


And with that, he made his way above deck, his step somehow lighter and his brow clear.  


* * *

“Tell me again.”  


Killian had returned later after wringing every bit of information he could from the little man in the red hat as possible. It had taken him the better part of an hour (and at least three weeks' worth of rum rations) to ply every detail from the man called Smee, every pertinent question he could think and several he did not think of coming from Graham before Killian felt satisfied that the informant had told them all they needed to know to rescue his wayward brother. The sack of coin he had placed in the man’s greedy and pudgy hands would be worth it if they found Liam.  


Killian laughed, stretching his legs out to perch them on the bed next to Emma's quilt-covered legs. When he'd returned to her, dreading what he would find, his mind conjuring images of Emma in a worsened state—pale, feverish, tossing and turning, calling out in pain—he'd found her laughing with Tink, her hand coming up to pat at the now-bandaged shoulder as she winced in pain. He owed a debt of gratitude to the lady Tink; she had somehow managed to have Emma sewn up, her shoulder wrapped in clean linen, her clothing changed, and even the bedding swapped out for something clean. Emma was resting on a bed of pillows (the crew having offered everything they had to their princess to ease her suffering, making him wish to give them all commendations and promotions the moment they returned to Misthaven), and he was seated at her side, the captain's desk chair pulled over flush with the side of the bed.  


“It's simple. There is a tunnel leading from the Dark One's fortress where the refuse and waste empties into a river. It's rocky and treacherous, but it's the way in. He drew a map, and you may _not_ look at it.”  


“But it's _my_ mission.” Her lower lip stuck out petulantly, and he wanted nothing more than to lean over the few inches separating them and bite that lip, but he did not, of course. He knew that were he to do so, however, that she would let him.  


For something had changed. He did not know how or when, only that it had happened. After the informant's interminable rambling, Killian had finally made his way back to her side, checking her eyes for any signs of discomfort, any hint that she was anything less than hale and whole. They had been clear of pain for the first time since he'd heard the sickening crack of gunshot behind them, since he had pulled her into his arms and begged her not to die—beautiful eyes full of bright green pain and something else. He'd seen it. Love, plain and simple, and consuming him with its ferocity.  


He shook his head and smiled. “How are you feeling?”  


“Like I've been shot.” Emma shifted, flinching, her hand automatically going to her shoulder and swatting him when he instantly turned to check. “It's fine.” She wiggled a bit and he had to ignore the...sway of her body above the quilt. Tink had put her in a thin, white night rail. Killian hadn't seen her in such a garment since they were children. Even as a young man, when he'd climbed into her bedroom, she'd been wearing a dress robe over her sleeping gown.  


Once settled, Emma sighed mightily and smiled up at him. “I do not like you going in alone.”  


“And I would rather you be at my side, as ever. But without the use of your arm--”  


“We'd have two good hands between us.”  


“Emma,” he sighed. He scrubbed his face with his hand, suddenly terribly weary and wanting nothing more than to lie down and look at her, simply look at her face for hours on end. Killian feared that he was winding himself up, so much had happened, even though Emma was well. But perhaps that was what had set him so ill-at-ease; he felt like a cat ready to pounce—restless energy and tension in his muscles, coiled and needing to hunt—but he had to wait until they got to the fortress to rescue his brother. Then, perhaps, the tenseness of his body would ease. Instead, he crooked a smile and reached out, adjusting the blanket around her waist. “If you were there, I—I'm afraid I would be distracted. I would only be thinking about whether you ought to be there while injured, and I--”  


“Would worry more about my safety than your own,” she finished. She nodded, closing her eyes and leaning her head back against the pillows. “I would do the same in your place.” Her eyes popped open as she focused an avid stare at him. “If I were not injured, you could not stop me.”  


“Nor would I.” He grinned, reaching out to press his fingertips on the back of her hand before scratching along her skin lightly. “I'm in half a mind to drag you along with me, anyway. But—”  


“--I am not who matters here,” she finished for him.  


“You matter, Emma.” She smiled, her eyes drifting shut. It had been a taxing day, and she had consumed much more rum than he'd ever seen her take in at once. He needed to let her rest, and yet he could not tear himself from her side.  


They sat in companionable silence for a few moments, and he knew that she was basking in it as was he. Being there, the two of them together, was all he ever wished for. All of their troubles—the war, his missing brother, the mission at hand—all melted away in the presence of the woman before him, safe and resting comfortably.  


After several minutes, he shifted his legs, making ready to stand.  


“I ought to turn in. You need rest, and we've a long journey ahead of us to the Golden Isle.”  


“Stay with me tonight?”  


He closed his eyes and smiled. She always did know exactly the right thing to say to set him to rights. With that small, simple request, the tension left his body, and he found himself nodding happily.  


“Of course. I'll just clean up first.”  


“Do not be long,” she told his back, sounding very much like the young girl he'd loved for as long as he could remember. After snuffing the one lantern swaying steadily above the bunk, he removed his shirt and ran a wet cloth over his face and neck. He settled in on the floor next to the bed, refusing her offer to share her bunk (and finally having to insist with “Should someone see, Emma!,” thoroughly unamused as she laughed lightly and tossed a pillow at him). As he drifted to sleep, he thought he heard her murmur, “We'll just see about _allowing_ me to accompany you,” but perhaps it was merely the creaking of the ship bringing dreams to him as he fell to slumber.  


* * *

The journey to the fortress of Rumplestiltskin took nearly two days. They had the wind in their hair and nothing but sunshine on their backs as they made their way toward Liam and the keep of the darkest wizard alive.  


Killian and Emma spent the time planning the rescue. Lancelot was to be his second, leading the rear guard that would dispatch any trouble coming from behind. Humbert would stay with Emma, to see that she was protected, and privately, Killian impressed the importance of seeing her safely home should their efforts fail. Humbert regarded the order solemnly; Killian could see the hesitation in the man's eyes and also the exasperation; both knew the princess would hardly take that well, but it was a necessary order. None of them—neither Liam nor Killian himself—mattered as much as she did. Humbert knew it, Killian knew it, and Emma would know it, even if she did not agree.  


Smee had provided a crude map of the dungeons of the castle, pointing out the likely cell that Liam would be held captive in. If all went to plan, they should make it from the castle with his brother in tow before nightfall.  


“Your word, Killian Jones,” Emma said to him as he was preparing to disembark. The team of men and women were going to take a small rowboat while the _Siren's Call_ docked on the other side of the island, claiming a need for canvas for the sails as an excuse for being so near. He could see Emma's worry painting her eyes a hard shade of green.  


“You will do nothing foolish. You _will_ come back to me intact.”  


“Minus the hand, you have my word.”  


“This is no time for jokes, Killian.” The gods help him, but she looked as though she might cry. He knew she would not, but the watery worry in her eyes nearly made him scrap the entire mission.  


“Nothing foolish,” he agreed. And then, because he knew he could, he reached out and took her good hand, lifting it to his lips and finally, finally placing a gentle kiss there. He did not think he imagined the soft inhale of breath or the parting of her lips as he looked down into her face. Her lashes fluttered several times; when she licked her lips, it was like he was in a dream. He realized he was leaning down and had to stop himself from breaking his word to not be foolish before the mission even began.  


And then Emma surprised him, something he thought he'd be used to after all this time, but there it was. She pressed up onto her toes and placed a soft kiss at the corner of his mouth.  


She pulled back, looking as flustered as he felt.  


“For luck,” she told him, drawing her lip between her teeth and grinning.  


Right then, he knew the mission would not fail. He took a step backward and raised an eyebrow.  


“I'll want another one of those when I return.”  


Her eyebrow raised in kind.  


“Perhaps.”  


“Perhaps.”  


“Go, then.”  


“I'm already gone.”  


He turned, grinning so wide he felt he could burst. Tink was there, staring at the two of them and pretending to check the fastenings of the ladder leading to the the small rowboat below. She smirked and mouthed the word “finally” at him.  


“Oh, and Quartermaster?”  


“Hmm?” He turned to look over his shoulder. Emma stood there, her arm in a sling and her hair blowing in the wind.  


“I'll think of you every minute you're gone,” she told him.  


“Good.”  


With that, he lifted his leg over the rail and began to climb down the rope ladder, feeling as though he could conquer the entire realm, now that he knew she was truly his.  


* * *

All did not go to plan.  


Smee's information had been good and solid; the guards ran like clockwork, and their surveillance was good but predictable. Killian and his small team had little problem sneaking into the stone edifice through the drainage system, and the map had been proved its information.  


The trouble appeared when they found the dungeon.  


Liam was not there.  


After muttering several eloquent curses in two different languages, Killian turned to his crew. Luckily for him, Emma was much better at planning such strategies, for she had a contingency plan in place: they would fan out in groups of three (“one to lead, one to bring up the rear, the other just in case”), taking the fortress one floor and one tower at a time, meeting up at strategic points every hour until Liam was located. It would be time-consuming work, but Killian was nothing if not determined to find his brother.  


“Commander,” Lancelot murmured at their third rendezvous. Killian was growing frustrated, his sense of urgency making him nervous. Emma and the remaining crew knew to leave him behind if no sign of them appeared by dawn; he figured he had approximately three hours until then, and he was feeling weary but still full of nerves. He could feel Liam nearby, knew he was there—if only he could locate him!  


“I have found him in the tower in the west wing.” Killian felt his eyes widen and joy bursting in his chest. Finally, good news!  


“Well, where is he?” Lancelot was a good man, but Killian wanted to shake him at the less-than-forthcoming information and the look of caution in his eyes.  


“Magical enchantments guard the lock, Commander.”  


Fuck.  


“Well,” Killian said, slapping the man on the shoulder and forcing a smile he truly did not feel. “Best get on with it, then.”  


But getting on with it meant dispatching several of the guard they met along the way, and Killian worried over the number of bodies they were leaving behind. He did not wish to be discovered, and he kept his ears pricked for the sound of an alarm, any cry that might indicate they'd been found.  


Higher and higher he climbed, up a tower that seemed to have a thousand steps. He followed Lancelot, two men ahead of them and a man and woman behind, the rest of the crew kept as lookout as they ascended the stairs.  


And then he was there, and his captain-brother looked up as he burst into the chamber at the top.  


“Killian,” Liam breathed with disbelief. He was sitting on a stool in a cell, looking disheveled but otherwise no worse for wear. Killian rushed to the bars, but Liam stayed him with his hand and a warning.  


“No! The cell has poison on it! I saw the little demon pour it on the lock himself. No escape for me, I'm afraid. I told Lancelot here to let me be, but he insisted quite cheerfully that you would run him through should he return to you empty-handed.”  


“Just so, Captain,” the knight grinned. “I imagine the princess would have run me through as well, for upsetting her, uh.” Lancelot darted a wary look at Killian. “Her friend?”  


“Very _close_ friend,” Liam offered.  


“Lover!” came Tink's voice from just outside the door.  


“Enough,” Killian sighed, ignoring Liam's grin but at the same time rejoicing in it. Like Emma, if Liam was having fun at his expense, then it meant he was breathing and well. And that was a good thing.  


He stepped forward, leaning down on his haunches to examine the lock on the cell. He frowned; he could detect no trace of poison or magic, but then again, he was hardly an expert.  


“Brother,” Liam breathed, kneeling down on the other side of the bars. “What did you do?”  


“Quiet, Brother,” Killian murmured. He wondered if he could use the hook on his hand to pry the lock open and thus avoiding touching any magical enchantments.  


“Killian. Killian, look at me.” Confused, Killian looked up to regard the eyes that looked so much like mother's in their concern. “Your hand, Killian.”  


“Oh, that.” Killian balanced his elbow on his thigh and held the hook aloft. “Gift from the Crocodile. Shiny, isn't it? This is part of my disguise, but I’m considering keeping it. Rather dangerous and dashing, isn’t it?” He grinned but felt torn when he saw how his brother's face fell, how the sadness swimming in the cloudy blue also held a flash of fury, and he rushed to stop it. “Liam, it isn't so bad,” he said softly. “Emma already threatened to kill the wicked little imp for it, and honestly, that was the best balm a man could ask for.”  


“I do believe she would, too,” Liam murmured, smiling wistfully while still eying his left arm. “Well. We shall make him pay, right?”  


“Aye.” Killian stood, brushing down his coat with his right hand. “He'll learn a valuable lesson.”  


“One does not mess with the Brothers Jones, because the Princess of Misthaven will have his ass.”  


“Exactly.”  


“How is she, anyway?” Liam asked. “I wouldn't want to be the one cleaning up the mess once she learned you'd been injured. How many things did she throw?”  


“She's injured, else she'd be here. She's on the other side of the island, keeping--”  


“She's _here_?” Liam said sharply. He looked stricken and angry, and Killian felt a sickening drop of warning sour his stomach. This was beyond the expected worry; Liam looked _appalled_.  


“Of course, this was her mission. Why, what is it?”  


“That was his plan all along, Killian. You must go. Forget me, you must get her to safety! He's been singing about it for weeks now, how he needs the princess to legitimize his claim on the realm, how he needs a royal heir for his son to--”  


Killian felt a mixture of emotion welling at Liam's words, shame at his own stupidity being the chief one to surge to the surface. Had the little reptile not taunted him about that very thing? And here he was, practically bringing Emma wrapped in a bow to the little demon. He _had_ to get to her. He had to get her out of there.  


A crashing outside drew his attention, and as he whipped around, the _shink_ of his sword being withdrawn rending the air, he only prayed he could get to Emma in time. He would never forgive himself if something happened to her. Again.  


“Ah, the man in question. Good thing I like you, Captain Jones. I'd be liable to leave your ass in the brig otherwise.”  


Emma stepped into the chamber, her sword in her good hand and a bright grin on her face. Her injured arm was unbound and crooked with her hand at her hip; she looked both rakish and arrogant. And beautiful. He felt both elated and crestfallen to see her; elated, always that, but he knew the danger to her had just increased by a hundredfold. He had to get her out of there.  


But Liam!  


Killian turned to see his brother executing his perfect and correct bow, standing with a grin as he addressed his princess.  


“Your highness. I am both honored and annoyed to see you.”  


“What else is new?” she sighed. “Why annoyed, Liam? I thought you adored me.”  


“I'm sure you're all that is worthy, my lady. But good enough for that one? Eh.” Liam twisted one wrist hand back and forth on an axis, and Killian didn't know whether to laugh or cry at how ridiculous they were being. The two people he loved most in the world, trading barbs when a madman had nefarious plans for them all, and wished them all dead. Except her. For her, he had the worst plans of all.  


“We have very little time. I'm afraid the alarm has been issued.” Emma strode forward, smiling briefly at Killian before stopping before the cell. She looked over her shoulder, her eyes meeting his, big and wide. She opened her mouth to speak but said nothing. He could see a question on her lips, could see her falter for but a moment, but then an odd look of certainty passed over her eyes, and her mouth curled into a soft smile. He knew she had been about to say something, he could tell, and while his body and mind responded with an immediate rush of that feeling he always had in her presence, he also felt a warning at the back of his mind.  


Not knowing what it meant, he stepped forward, ready to protect her, but little did he know _she_ was the very thing she needed protecting from.  


“Here goes nothing,” she said, turning back to face Liam, her hand going into her pocket and producing a knife. Before Killian could stop her, she jammed the knife into the lock and pried it open. The door sprang open, brushing against her skin.  


With a soft sigh, her body slumped to the floor. The door to the cell opened fully, giving Liam room to leave, but Emma was blocking his freedom with her fallen body.  



	8. Chapter 8

As she rushed upstairs, Emma's heart jumped into her throat and back down to the bottom of her stomach many times, a constant litany of “running out of time, I must hurry, running out of time, hurry hurry _hurry,_ ” dancing about in her head. 

She knew what was going on. She'd overheard it at the small and dirty docks on the other side of Rumplestiltskin's island.  


The henchmen there had eyed her with suspicion, but she went largely unbothered due to the tall and quietly overbearing presence of Graham at her side. He'd taken it upon himself to be her guard and she allowed it; it would not hurt to have an extra sword, and she wasn't taking any chances with her person.  


Not now that she knew Killian loved her.  


She wished they'd had more time; while she doubted not that he would find Liam and they'd all be home before they knew it, she still longed for the conversation that was forthcoming. Of telling Killian that she loved him, and had loved him longer than she knew. She smiled simply thinking about it.  


And she wondered what it would be like to kiss him. She'd been doing that for some time, but now it seemed a certainty, an inevitability. She no longer wondered about reciprocation of her feelings, only when the declarations would be made.  


But those things would have to wait; for now, saving Liam Jones was the only thing that mattered. She had a duty to her friend and to her kingdom, and she would see it through.  


As they had made a deal bartering for canvas to maintain their cover, however, Emma overheard something that unsettled her greatly: the Dark One had enchanted the cell holding his prized prisoner, the man that would get him a throne. The man who the sorceror was certain the Princess of Misthaven would exchange her life for.  


As she stood frozen, eavesdropping on a conversation between two men cackling like hags over a cauldron, she realized that she would have to charge the fortress herself. For Liam was in danger, _Killian_ was in danger.  


If he touched the cell door, he would be cursed. A deep sleep, they said, never to wake. There was no antidote, no remedy. A sleep as death, forever to remain in the fiery Shadow Realm. The Dark One's favorite curse, for he did not himself believe in the one thing that could end it, though the cackling men did not say what that thing was.  


No matter. Emma would be damned before she'd see Killian fall into an eternal sleep. Besides, she was the princess, wasn't she? Killian and her parents would do everything they could to wake her, raise heaven and hell, use all resources to try whatever the purported cure claimed to be. She was not afraid. She'd rather be the one sleeping, anyway; perhaps it was cowardly of her, but she knew she could not bear it should Killian be the one unable to be awakened. She'd likely embarrass herself before the entire kingdom by refusing to leave his side and kissing his sleeping face constantly.  


As Emma rushed to the sewer entrance, wanting to scream at her crew to make haste but remaining silent, she only had one thought: _I must get to Killian, for what if he should fall into eternal sleep and I cannot save him?_  


 _Of course you can_ , her mind laughed. _You believe it, and so does he._  


She felt a tickle along her spine, a whisper of a memory of an old child's book; a fairy-story speaking of the knights and ladies of old, of princesses and dragons and 100-year sleeping curses and pricked fingers and handsome princes. The kind of story Father used to read to her at night, the kind that she and Killian had laughed off as children's tales.  


And as she rushed into the main hall, Lancelot's surprise at seeing her brief as he pointed toward a hallway leading to a tall tower, she nearly smiled at the thought of it, though the fairy tale flitted from her mind as quickly as the thought:  


I _do_ believe.  


But that did not mean she was in no small hurry to get there in time. Killian had already been through so much, had already given so much for the kingdom. Falling into a sleeping curse would complicate things, and if she had to take on the burden herself, she would.  


As she climbed the steps to Killian (Liam), Emma came to a swift and easy decision. She could touch the enchanted cell door. She was not afraid. It did not mean death, merely sleep. It was a sacrifice that was worth it.  


She knew that Killian would sail every ocean to find a way to save her. She had faith in it, in him. In her love. In his.  


She tried everything she could think to convey that love to Killian as she approached Liam and his cell door. She thought she could detect the faint hum of magic in the air; she'd never felt it before, had never seen it, but she doubted not its presence. How could she doubt it, when she felt the blast of Killian's love and worry hit her the moment she reached for the lock?  


When the door to Liam's cell popped open and she felt drowsiness overtake her, she fell with a smile. Liam was free; she'd completed her mission.  


Now it was on Killian to see it through.  


* * *

It had taken quite some time for anyone to allow Emma to run about the kingdom with one of the boys from the village. In the beginning they had been restricted to the confines of the castle, only allowed out in the company of either Mother or Father or several guards. Neither of the children wished to be watched constantly by adults, so Emma had patiently explained to her new friend that they simply needed to earn their trust by behaving. When months and months of constant supervision had nearly driven Emma to tantrums, Mother had finally decreed that she trusted the little Jones boy and that as long as they didn't get into _too_ much trouble, they were permitted to roam free. From that moment on, Emma made it her business to show Killian everything wonderful that the kingdom had to offer.  


One time when they were still testing out their newly-earned freedom, Emma had asked Killian whether he'd ever kissed a girl.  


“What?” he had laughed, his hands readjusting their grip. They were hanging from an obliging tree branch, Emma having dared him to outlast her, for she could hold on for _two whole minutes_. He'd regarded her seriously, his arms crossed, asking if that wasn't a bit dangerous for a princess, dangling from trees so far above the ground.  


“I see the older boys doing it, and so I tried it, too. It isn't hard, Killian,” she'd told him before hitching her skirts to climb. She grinned as she heard him sigh and huff below her before immediately following. She'd shown him how to do it—straddle the arm of the tree and lean over to hug it tight before shifting and dropping. He'd gone first, not wanting to be outdone by her, a look of panic screwing his face up as his legs fell. Laughingly, Emma had followed suit, dropping quite elegantly, her skirts falling neatly around her ankles. She had felt free and light, even kicking her legs out to swing a bit, bringing the look of panic back to her friend's face.  


“See? Not so hard.” She'd then swung one arm around and back around the branch again, linking her fingers together to clasp the tree branch tighter, a trick she'd learned from one of the boys that she wished Killian to know about so he, too, could hang free as long as she.  


“No, not so hard.” He quickly emulated her, grinning when he settled in to hang just as she did.  


“If I can do it, so can you.”  


“Indeed, your highness.” She'd sighed heavily, feeling put-upon. When would he stop calling her that? She wasn't his princess, she was his _friend_.  


They'd hung there, facing each other, their legs occasionally bumping as they swung them gently in the breeze.  


“You've jam in the corner of your mouth, you know.”  


“So do you, princess,” he'd grinned. She could remember thinking he had such a nice smile when no one was else around; he was always so serious when they were in the castle and around adults, so “conscious of his station,” as he put it. Emma may have been little, but she knew that meant he didn't think he was good enough, which was silly. He was more good than she; he was _better_. Best, even.  


Then she'd remembered that Father, too, was messy with his toast and jam, like Emma, and it made her grin.  


“Mother likes to kiss the jam away. She says it's the only thing that makes kissing Father sweeter.”  


Killian's face had turned pink as he looked anywhere but at her, and she wondered if he was one of those boys that didn't like talking about kissing. Or maybe...  


“Have you ever kissed a girl, Killian?”  


“What?”  


“Or been kissed?”  


“No!” She thought he was going to let go of the branch, which would definitely mean she would win the challenge. Eager to win, she inched her fingers forward and gently swung closer to him.  


“Emma, what are you doing?”  


“You called me Emma!”  


It was the first time he'd done so since the day they'd met when he'd saved that dog and he'd introduced himself as Killian and she'd told him her name through her sobs. He'd said, “Emma. Emma? We'll fix the dog. Do not cry,” and wrapped his arms around her, not at all bothered that she rubbed her teary face against his shirt.  


It felt like ages since he'd called her Emma, and when he did it this time, she was so delighted that she leaned over and kissed the jam from the corner of his mouth, like Mother. He'd been so astonished he let go, the look on his face comical as he dropped. Emma had giggled merrily, looking down at her friend. He fell to his knees and then kept going dramatically, splaying his arms out, his cheeks bright red and his eyes closed.  


“I win!” she had called down with glee. She let go and landed right next to him, kneeling down to poke him in the side and laughing. When he didn't move she'd immediately grown worried, her eyes darting over his face and his unmoving chest. She reached out to shake his shoulders and _make_ him move, make him breathe. His eyes popped open, their mischievous blue sparkling at her as she scowled.  


“Do not do that,” she had told him, squeezing his shoulders until he winced. “I thought you'd been hurt. What if I'd done that, how would you like it?”  


“Not at all,” he'd said seriously, his smile dropping and a frown puckering his brow. “I shouldn't like it one bit if you got hurt.”  


“Nor I you.”  


“All right, then,” he'd said, a grin appearing at the corner of his mouth where she'd kissed the jam away. “You are not allowed to be hurt. Your life is more important than mine, anyway.”  


“Not so!”  


“Just so. I shall be your knight protector.”  


She flopped down next to him, her skirts spreading out and her arms at her sides. She grabbed fistfuls of the meadow beneath her palms and raised her hands, sprinkling grass over the two of them as she looked up at the patches of sky visible through the green canopy above.  


“Would you give your life for me, then? Like Mother's guard?”  


“I would.”  


“Swear on it.”  


“I swear my fealty to you, my princess.” He sounded like one of the courtiers forever begging for Mother's favors, and she giggled. “'Tis no laughing matter, your highness. I mean it.”  


“What's fealty?”  


“I think it means I'd rather die than break my promise to protect you.”  


“Oh.” She'd thought on that, glad she had a friend who knew so much. “Well, then. You have my fealty as well.”  


“I'm not a lord, princess.”  


“I'm not a princess, I'm Emma. But you're my knight, right?”  


“Yes,” he'd said, sounding wary.  


“Then I shall be your knight as well.”  


“That is not how it works.”  


“Well, I'm your princess, and I say it is.”  


“You just said you're not a princess.”  


“Killian!”  


“Yes.”  


“Just allow me to—what is it again?”  


“Swear your fealty.”  


“Yes. I swear my fealty to you, Killian Jones.”  


“And I swear my fealty to you, Princess Emma of Misthaven.”  


“Good.” She'd smiled, enjoying the wonderful game. Being outside, the sunshine. The trees and the grass and fun with Killian. She was having such a _marvelous_ time.  


“I really shouldn't like it if you got hurt, you know.”  


“I know,” she'd sighed. Even back then, she knew it would upset him. “I'll try not to.” And then she'd giggled. “My faithful servant.”  


“Forever,” he'd agreed.  


“Let's do it again,” he had suggested a moment later. “This time, I'll hold on longer than you, you just wait!”  


“You're on,” she had told him. She turned her head to grin at him, smiling at the look on his face—the freckled smile, his eyes closed peacefully. _How wonderful his face is_ , she'd thought before rising once again.  


This time, however, it was Emma's eyes that were closed. She could hear muffled words—soggy, urgent murmurings that she could not place. She was hot but cold all over, and she felt an insistent buzzing through her body, like she was on the edge of an urgent dream and her body was telling her to _wake up, Emma. Emma, no, please. Wake up._  


_Emma, please._   


And then wonderful warmth, an embrace that meant the world to her; she was being lifted and held, and there was moist heat pressed against her neck, her shoulder cradling something precious. She wished she could hold it, could keep it in her arms forever, only her arms would not obey. Frustrated, she tried to move but found she could not; all she could do was listen with consternation and wait. Patience had never been her strong suit. She'd already waited so _long_.  


 _Emma_ , whispered into her ear. _Emma, I love you so_.  


 _Killian_ , her mind sighed happily, recognizing the warmth and the warm words. _Killian, I am here_.  


 _We must go!_ The other voice was urgent, and she wished to lash out at it, to tell whomever it was to leave them be. But she knew that the voice was right, that they needed to go. There was danger. She had tried to spare him this, had she not? She could not remember.  


_Emma, I—_   


And then warmth at her face—soft brushes like the fluttering of wings against her brow, her temple, over her eyelids. Faint whispers against her skin, reverent words pressed into her cheeks, at each corner of her mouth. And then the whisper turned firm and solid and hot, landing on her lips. And that was all. And that was it. And that was everything. A burst, a rush of exhilaration. Pouring inexorably from their mouths pressed together, joy and love radiating from between them, she could feel it, she could _see_ it because her eyes popped open and there were sparks dancing as she looked into two watery-blue eyes filled with worry-fading-to-wonder.  


She was in Killian's arms and his face was close to hers, so close she saw new freckles she'd not noticed at the corner of one eye. So close she did not know which was the one of them breathing so hard. So close their mouths were still touching. So close she leaned up to kiss him, because she didn't quite believe she wasn't still dreaming.  


“Emma?”  


“She's awake!” Emma heard the hushed words somewhere behind her. Were they still in the Dark One's tower? Why had they not left yet?  


“Killian, we need to go.” He did not seem to heed his brother's urgency, instead staring down at Emma with astonishment still clear in his eyes.  


“Killian?” Emma murmured, feeling giddy laughter burbling up her chest. She realized he was holding her tightly, his arms around her in an embrace they'd not shared in quite some time and even then, it had never been like this. She'd never seen love blazing so fiercely in his eyes. Love and worry and a bit of anger.  


“What happened?” he whispered, his lips ghosting across hers, for he'd not let go his tight grasp just yet.  


“True Love's Kiss, you knob,” Emma heard Tink say. “It was a sleeping curse, like in the fairy stories. Congratulations. May we please finish the rescue mission now?”  


Emma felt a grin split her face before he, too, grinned.  


“Let's get the hell out of here,” he said against her mouth.  


“All right,” she said. He finally relaxed his grip and stood, lifting her to standing with him. Emma reached down and pulled out her sword, looking over at him with her grin still firm across her face. When he mimicked her movement, his own grin there and looking slightly dazed, Emma felt it down to her bones.  


They were going to be just fine.  


And they were.  


* * *

“What if we didn't return home?”  


Killian was startled. He was standing at the helm with Emma leaning against the rail nearby, her back to him as she stared out toward the vast ocean beyond. She sighed mightily but it was a content sound, no wistfulness or sorrow or worry that he could detect. He recovered quickly, realizing she was being fanciful, and he thought he knew why.  


“Shall we chase the horizon, or did you have a particular destination in mind? Back to Fortuna, perhaps, for a life of piracy?”  


“I've still yet to meet a mermaid,” she said over her shoulder, locking eyes with him before turning, but lingering enough so that he felt the power of the softness there, the _admiration_.  


They hadn't discussed it yet, how she had sacrificed herself to free his brother, brief though the curse had been. How she'd fallen. How he'd fallen in disbelief, his heart plummeting down the length of the tower. The blank terror that had descended as his body had spurred to action, independent from his mind, grabbing his princess when she fell to sleep with an easy smile on her lips. The heart-sick as he heard himself muttering her name over and over, shaking her as he himself shook.  


The unknowing. Gods, the unknowing. He thought she'd died for one brief, unending moment, but as surely as he loved her he knew she was not dead, for he would have died, too. So no, the Princess of Misthaven was not dead, _his Emma_ was not dead. Even as the acknowledgment spread relief in his body, his soul cried out in grief, for she would not awaken. The selfish part of him grew furious and desolation descended as he held her, indignant that he'd been robbed of the chance to celebrate the success of the mission, that he'd not been granted the opportunity to finally, finally tell her of his love.  


To kiss her.  


So, that selfishness overtook him in that moment, clasping her to his breast before pulling back to look at the peace on her face. Even as Liam rushed forth from his prison and urged him to “Hurry, Brother! I shall help carry her!,” Killian squeezed Emma's waist and shoulder, trying to keep her for one moment longer, for he knew the future was uncertain. She was enchanted by the-gods-knew-what; who knew how long it would take to find the antidote? He brushed his lips reverently across her brow, her eyes, the playful freckles dotting her cheeks. He felt every word of love he'd never uttered pouring forth into her skin, the fanciful notion that his love would save her. Of course it did not, but that did not stop him from continuing. He'd never felt the press of time more than in that moment; there he was, selfishly holding her to him and telling her the things he'd always longed to say, and they needed to leave, to make haste. And still he held on, his words and his lips chanting his love over and over.  


He felt more selfish than ever he had; he would do anything, anything to bring her back to him. And he knew he'd have the blessing of her parents, of his queen and his king. Killian knew then that whatever the cost—whether pecuniary in nature or more of a soul-sacrifice—he'd do it. He was nothing without her, anyway. He'd do it. He leaned forward to whisper his promise to her, for her, and only for her.  


“I _will_ wake you, my love.” And he brushed her lips with his to seal the promise.  


Imagine his surprise when she did, in fact, awaken. He knew it before her eyes opened, could feel a shimmering burst of magic blasting (there was no other word for it) across him, the sensation tickling throughout his body and settling somewhere below his belly. Then, where but a moment before her still and lax body laid in his arms unmoving, he could feel her coming to life as if from sleep, which it was, his amazement nearly overtaking the warmth he still felt at holding the woman he loved in his arms.  


“Killian?” she had murmured, and the utter joy he felt while staring at the perplexed expression of her eyes nearly made him laugh in delight. He did not think his heart could take it—the despair of her falling followed within mere moments by his elation that it had been so short-lived. But he knew they needed to go. But how—?  


“What happened?”  


 _True Love's Kiss_ , his heart answered, the lady Tink affirming it in her mocking way. He grinned, feeling the brush of Emma's lips below his own.  


“Let's get the hell out of here.”  


He could hear yelling far below them.  


Almost unaware of his surroundings, he moved automatically at his brother's urging, glad for his training that his body knew what to do, even though he himself was out of sorts. He and Liam flanked the princess, she testily insisting she was _just fine, dammit_ , his grin almost unseemly as he led the way out of the chamber and down the tower.  


Fortunately, their crew was more than competent, and the escape from the fortress was easily done. They were back aboard the _Siren's Call_ and sailing away before the first volley of cannonfire hit the waves very near the schooner, spraying water on their faces as they sailed away. Luckily for them, it did not appear that the Crocodile himself was home, for Killian was certain that magic would have stopped them.  


Now the sun was setting, and they were making their way home. Liam had been fed, fussed over, and then put to bed, grumbling in embarrassment the entire time that he was simply homesick and wished for nothing more than to be left alone. He wouldn't hear of taking the captain's quarters, mumbling something about dereliction of duty and he'd be damned before he'd take his princess's mattress when a hammock would suit him just fine, and only out of fond exasperation did Emma allow Liam to fall snoring in one of the empty crew's bunks.  


“I believe your lady mother would have something to say about the two of us not returning home, highness,” he told her lightly, for he felt light; he felt free. He felt love consuming him, and he felt like it was high time he told her outright how he felt.  


If only Tink would stop raising her eyebrows at him every time she caught his eye.  


“I suppose you are right.” Emma sighed heavily, turning to face him and leaning with her elbows on the rail.  


“I can count the number of times I've heard _that_ particular phrase on both hands,” he said, lifting hand and hook from the wheel and shaking his wrists at her.  


“Oh, ha ha.”  


One of the crew walked between them, hanging a lantern on a peg for such a purpose and walking away just as quickly. It was dark, and the sounds of the rest of the crew eating and celebrating below punctuated the stillness above deck. Killian was waiting for his relief, but there was no need for Emma to remain.  


“You ought to rest, Captain. We've a long journey ahead of us.”  


“It is only a week or so. And I think I've had enough sleep for today, don't you?”  


She was smiling, but he felt his brow darken at that. He still felt panic descend when he remembered her falling, remembered the sinking in his stomach, brief as it had been.  


“It is not funny, highness.”  


“No, it is not,” she agreed. She rolled her body forward and he was caught by the movement, his eyes watching her carefully as she stepped closer to him. “But Killian.” Her voice lowered, her tone soft and uncertain as she looked anywhere but at him. “I do not know that I'll be able to sleep tonight.”  


“Then we shall have to think of a way to keep you awake.” The words were out before he could stop them, and he wanted to smack himself on the head. “Not—not that, I didn't mean—“  


“You grow more forward by the day. Do you speak to your princess thus?”  


Her brows were raised when he rushed to explain, and he could see a merry twinkle in her eye. “Emma, be serious. I merely meant—“  


“I know what you meant.” He cursed the flood of warmth in his face, hoping she could not see it and deciding she probably knew, anyway. She knew him so well, even after all their time apart. “So. What do you suggest?”  


 _About eight different positions_ , his mind shouted, but of course, he did not say that. He may have been a sailor, but he was more braggadocio than experience. All his time visiting different lands, and he'd never once availed himself of the many women (and some men) eager to offer their time and their bodies to the young sailors made handsome and irresistible by crisp uniforms. He'd tried once or twice, but he'd never been able to go through with it. Not when thoughts of _her_ intruded on his every action.  


That depressing thought brought him about. And then a worse one— _what if she had?_ Gone through with it, that is. Had Emma ever--?  


He hadn't realized it, but he'd always wanted them to experience that together. He'd simply never acknowledged it, because until recently, he'd never thought it even possible.  


But now that she was standing close, her body swaying toward him with the motion of the waves beneath the ship, he knew that there was a very real possibility that it could happen. And when her lip curled knowingly as she looked down at his mouth, he suddenly felt certain of it.  


Well.  


Not tonight, obviously. He had to declare his intentions first. His intentions! What were they? What did he want?  


Her. Only her.  


“Your highness, Commander.” A man named Clark stepped forward and executed a short bow. “I'm here to relieve you.”  


“I am relieved,” Killian grinned. With a bracing thrill up his spine, he held out his left elbow and spoke with confidence he did not necessarily feel. “Shall we, Captain?”  


“We shall.” Emma took his arm, and he led her to her quarters.  


As they walked together, he could feel the declaration blooming, could feel it surging up his throat. It was rare that he felt such nerves when with her, but then again, this would be the first time he ever felt ready to say things to her, love things, emotional things. He'd never felt certain she felt the same, but now that he did, he found that he was nervous. How to proceed? What came after?  


How would her parents take it? Would he and Emma have to run should his suit be deemed unworthy?  


“So.” Emma took his hand and pulled him into the captain's quarters, reaching around him to shut the door behind them, her body pressing against his. She pulled back and simply stood in front of him, looking up into his eyes. She looked soft and serene, a slight smile on her lips as he continued to gaze at the face he had loved for so long.  


“So.” He had so much to say but did not know how to begin; how does one go about telling the worthiest woman in the realm that she was everything to him?  


“You love me.” He was nearly startled by her bold declaration, but only nearly so. Emma, always so brave, would of course be brave in the face of her own certainty.  


“Yes.”  


“For how long?”  


“Since you took my hand and informed me we were to be friends.”  


Her eyes widened. “That long?”  


“Aye. How long have you loved me?” he challenged, feeling utter joy when he said it. It was difficult to contain his jubilation, and he had to suppress the giddy urge to grab her and never let go.  


“Always, I think.” Her eyes drew down and he reached up to brush his thumb at her chin, lifting it up to bring her gaze back to his. She smiled tremulously and he cupped her jaw, his fingers firm on her skin. A thrill like he'd never known coursed down his spine when she turned her face to press a kiss to his thumb. “But I only realized it recently.”  


“When?” He was getting distracted by her closeness, by her lips that rubbed against his hand as she spoke.  


“When there was no word from you, and I was growing frustrated by the lack of information. By the lack of you.” She closed her eyes and a look of trouble puckered her brow. “I missed you so much whenever you were gone, Killian.”  


“I hated leaving you.”  


“Then you shouldn't have.”  


“Ah,” he laughed softly, reaching out with his other arm to wrap it about her waist. She, in turn, put her arms around him, and the jubilation that descended was unlike anything he'd ever felt before. _Is there anything better than this?_ he thought with no small wonder. He drew her closer, feeling so very right when she melted into his embrace. She rested her face against his chest and he leaned down to murmur into her hair. “But my absence was needed, apparently, for you to realize your feelings for me.” He tightened his arms around her, wanting to hold her forever. But weariness has a way of sneaking up on a man, and as they stood there in each other's arms, he began to feel heavy, drowsiness taking over and threatening to pull them both down with its weight.  


“You are tired,” she said, her words muffled against his chest and under his arm.  


“It's been a long day,” he chuckled. “I nearly lost my brother and then you in the span of minutes. My heart can't take much of that without my body protesting vehemently.”  


“I should let you sleep.” But she did not move and so neither did he, continuing to hold her and feel joy from the holding.  


After a spell he felt his legs start to ache, but he was loathe to do a thing about it. Eventually, however, Emma sighed, pulling herself from his embrace with a look of reluctance. His entire body protested it, but he knew he needed to rest, and so did she.  


“Well, Quartermaster,” she grinned, stepping away and cocking her brow at him. “I think I can sleep now.” She turned and shrugged out of her coat before leaning down to pull off her boots.  


“I know I could,” he groaned, following suit. He marveled at this, that they had shared several nights in the same quarters. He draped his heavy coat on the chair after moving it back to the desk, then removed the brace holding his hook and laying it down on the table. He reached for a pillow and dropped it to the floor next to the bed, exhaustion suddenly descending as he spoke next. “Do not wake me for anything, not even should Poseidon himself appear and demand my allegiance. I'm going to sleep for days, I think.”  


“And just what do you think you're doing?” Emma demanded with laughter in her voice. “How are we going to both sleep in that bunk with one of the pillows on the floor?”  


“How are we...” he began. Then, “No. Emma!” The primness of his voice was almost laughable, were he not so very shocked. “That's hardly proper!” His eyes darted in the direction of the crew's quarters, his mind frantic at the thought of Liam bursting in and boxing his ears should he discover them in bed together. Even as his body yearned for it.  


“Since when have we ever done anything proper, Killian?” Her grin was wide as she sat on the bed, patting the space right next to her.  


“No,” he said, shaking his head, but his protest sounded feeble, even to his own ears.  


“No?”  


“I—“  


“Killian,” she said, softer this time. “You don't have to, but I...I want to feel you near me. Not for that,” she said, a furious blush visible even in the dim light of the lantern overhead. “I simply...I need you, Killian.”  


Well, all right, then. He could hardly resist such a simple request from this woman.  


He nodded, and her responding smile nearly did him in. _So beautiful_ , he thought as he climbed in next to her. The bunk was narrow, barely enough for two people, but they shifted somewhat awkwardly, finally landing on a position that allowed for her to curl up with her back to his chest and her head on his arm. As he gently rested his other arm around her waist and she sighed happily, he thought he could never feel as content as he did in that moment.  


* * *

For days they sailed toward Misthaven, a storm delaying their homecoming by nearly a week when they had to sail around it as best they could. A discussion had ensued, the idea of sending a letter to inform the queen and king of their impending arrival scrapped as quickly as it was brought up. All were worried that the Dark One's forces would be in fast pursuit, but the storm was so large and long-lasting that they figured their pursuers would be similarly delayed. When no sign of any ships appeared, they knew they were nearly home-free, giddiness overcoming the crew at the thought of their imminent arrival. Celebrations cropped up nightly, music going on long into the night, tales woven and embellished upon. They even managed to waste an entire day in pursuit of a kraken on a concurrent course with the ship, Emma only slightly crestfallen that it was merely a very large squid. Killian could not help himself in teasing the pout of her face, telling her that krakens were a mere fancy a young lieutenant had once written a younger princess to entertain her because he knew his absence tormented her so.  


The night before their arrival back home, Liam was discussing plans to destroy the Crocodile. He could not be convinced on any other plan, and Killian reluctantly admitted that he was right. Since discovering the demon's nefarious plans for Emma and his reptilian son, Killian knew that the imp would not stop until he got what he wanted. They had to put an end to it, or he feared Emma would never be safe.  


“We'll discuss it with their majesties upon our return,” Emma told him for what felt the hundredth time. “My mother has ever sought your counsel, Liam. You know this. I'm not the one needing convincing, and I'm certain she will see the wisdom in your words.”  


“I'm flattered, your highness. But if we could just—“  


“No more, Brother,” Killian groaned. They were sitting in the galley, picking at dry bread and leftover fish from their meal. “Let's all go to bed.” Liam shot him a violent look from across the table, and some of the other crew exchanged knowing looks. It had been happening for weeks now—ever since they got back. Though none but Liam had broached the subject, Killian was rather certain that all knew he was sharing the princess's bed, innocent though it was.  


“Watch yourself with her,” Liam had told him, the repeated refrain still tiresome after all these years.  


“I always do,” Killian had responded stiffly, not relishing the reprimand that was forthcoming.  


“Oh. So you are not sleeping with her?”  


“Liam, no! I mean, I am, but it's not—we're not—“  


“She is a princess, Killian.”  


“I know that!”  


“She deserves the utmost respect.”  


“No one respects her more than I.” He hated how formal he sounded, especially with Liam, but he wouldn't countenance anyone questioning his actions, even his own brother.  


“No one loves her more than you,” Liam countered. Killian sighed. “And until you declare yourself, you'll have to--”  


“I already did,” Killian responded, feeling some of the stiffness relent when Liam snapped his gaze to look at him hard.  


“And did she--”  


“She did.”  


“So she finally admitted it,” Liam said softly, and Killian swelled at the pride in his voice.  


“Aye, she did.”  


“And did you...are you going to...marry?”  


“Marry?” He was floored. “I...hadn't considered.”  


“No?” Really, the skepticism in Liam's voice was annoying. “Because it seems to me that--”  


“Liam. I say this with all the loyalty of a lesser officer and the love of a younger brother: shut your mouth.”  


“All right.” But his brother's grin was a little too smug as he sauntered off.  


“Yes,” Liam said, standing from the table and interrupting his remembrances. “We've a long day ahead of us, and the home fires burn and await our return. Let's all go to bed.” Tink smothered a laugh and Emma stood, her face bright red as she looked over at Killian.  


But as they made ready for sleeping, she seemed distracted, her arms moving slowly as she unwound her braid and finger-combed her hair. He loved to watch her do that; the first time he'd seen it the second night they'd shared a bed, he lamented never having seen it before. She'd been wearing her hair up since she was twelve, and he realized he'd missed seeing it swaying about her shoulders as they raced on horseback or rushed to the castle kitchens to see if they could catch Granny pulling fresh cakes from the ovens. When he dreamt of her over the years, her hair was always like this—free and soft and flowing about her shoulders. He hoped he would continue to be permitted to see her thus, and once again, the thought of presenting himself as a suitor to the queen and the king filled him with nervous energy.  


“What is it?” he said gently as he approached the bed. She smiled up at him, her eyes wide when she did not immediately respond.  


“You know me well,” she chuckled after a fashion. Then, “So why is it you haven't kissed me yet? I mean, again. After waking me from the—oh, hell. Get over here.” She patted the quilt and he laughed softly, sitting next to her on the bed.  


“I do not wish to be too forward,” he said, looking down at his hands before continuing. “And Emma.” He grinned, shaking his head ruefully at how true his next words were. “If I started to kiss you, I fear I might never stop.”  


“Perhaps I would not want you to stop,” she said boldly, putting her hand on his arm. She rubbed a circle into his skin with her thumb and when he finally looked up, it was to see _want_ clear on her face. He felt a thrill go through him at that; always, always she looked at him with clear eyes and her emotions plain in her expression, but like this? A man could die having the woman he loved look at him thus.  


“Emma,” he breathed, unable to resist it. He'd been holding himself back, had been keeping his desires in check, but he was only so strong. He closed the distance between them and pressed his lips against hers.  


And oh. Oh, yes. She kissed him back. Involuntarily, he moaned low in his throat, her body turning to him, her mouth moving with his. He smiled into it before focusing his attention on the feel of her, on her hand landing on his chest, her fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt and pulling him closer. He felt her lips parting and immediately swept his tongue there, gasping when she returned the gesture, her tongue meeting his, tentative at first and then bolder, her own moan soft and sending a thrill straight down to his groin. He felt himself stir to life and nearly pulled back but she pulled him closer, shifting until she was perched on her knees, her hands coming up to cup his face between them. He turned his waist and shifted one knee until it bent, his entire body wanting to face her.  


She continued kissing him and he kissed her back, sheer joy and elation sweeping him into the best moment of his life. She angled her head and slanted her lips over his, her kisses growing somewhat desperate. He needed to stop, he needed to stop or he'd pull her closer but then he reached out and wrapped his arms about her waist, feeling himself stiffen down below when she climbed over his legs, her knees settling on either side of his thighs.  


“Killian,” she sighed, coming down to sit on his lap. She breathed against his mouth before taking his bottom lip between her teeth, sucking lightly and making him groan.  


“Emma,” he panted, pulling his head back and laughing when she chased his mouth with hers. “Emma, we shouldn't.”  


“It's just kissing, Commander,” she said, grinning slyly and swiping her tongue across his lip. It was too much, she was too much; she rocked her hips and it made the both of them gasp, Emma pulling back to look at him with her eyes wide and her mouth hanging open.  


“ _That_ wasn't kissing, Princess,” he said somewhat breathlessly. He was painfully hard now, and it took everything he had in him not to rock his hips back.  


“No,” she agreed, also breathless. Then she pulled her head back and a look of uncertainty crossed her face. “Unless...you do not want to...”  


“Emma.” He laughed. Of course he laughed; how could she think that?  


“Do not laugh at me,” she snapped, going to shift away but he shifted his arm, spreading his hand across the small of her back and pulling her close, resisting the urge to crush her to him. He dipped down to kiss her softly, once and then twice, holding the second kiss without moving, trying to temper his beating heart and the urge to flip her onto her back. After a moment he tilted his chin down and rested his brow to hers.  


“Princess Emma of Misthaven, you are the dearest thing in my heart. I've loved you for most of my life. You are the best person I know, the bravest and the kindest.” He felt rather than saw her smile, but she still felt tentative, like she might pull back. Clearing his throat, he pulled away a bit and brought his hand up to tilt her chin. “You are beautiful to me, more than you will ever know. It has little to do with this,” and here he ran one finger down the gentle slope of her nose, “or these,” and he leaned forward to kiss the roundness of each cheek. “Or this perfect mouth,” and he pressed his lips lightly there, a bare brushing against hers.  


“But Emma. Please believe that I have never felt something so strongly in my life as this: I want to. Gods, do I want to.” And then just because he could, he let his hand trail down her face, fanning his fingers out when he got to her chin and continuing down—a light touch against the delicate lines of her throat, his fingertips spanning out to brush both collarbones, his fingers hitching on the neckline of her thin, white nightshirt. He could feel her breath hitch beneath his touch and he smirked, continuing the new path of discovery being forged. He curled his fingers around the hem and shifted it to the side, the delicate fabric falling off her shoulder. Leaning down, he pressed a kiss on the exposed flesh, smiling into her skin when she shivered. Her back had arched, her breasts now pointing up and he longed to see them, but he knew he had to keep himself in control. It was difficult, however, when she was presenting herself thus; he dragged his chin down her skin and kissed at the crevice formed by arm and breast, rubbing his face there and enjoying the spasms making her jiggle so delightfully.  


“That tickles,” she breathed.  


“I know,” he told her skin, his face still pressed against her. He turned his head, the neckline of her gown in his eyesight; he looked across the gentle slopes of her breasts, feeling utterly smug that her chest was heaving.  


_Stifle it, Commander._   


“Emma,” he breathed heavily, closing his eyes as if in pain. And he was in pain, the worst kind. “I want you in every way possible. You _must_ know that.”  


“I want you, as well.”  


“Well, then.” He smiled, feeling so damned happy it ought to be banned to feel as such.  


“Now?”  


“Emma.” He opened his eyes and looked up at her, nearly overcome by the look on her face. Soft, so soft; she rarely allowed herself to appear so vulnerable before anyone. She was not the princess in this moment; she was a lovely woman being held by a man who loved her, a woman who knew that their love was true—literally, if Tink could be believed.  


Beginning to feel overwhelmed, he told himself to let her go, tuck her in at his side, and attempt to sleep. But it was so difficult when she was moistening her lips, her tongue peeking out, pink and enticing, her breasts continuing to heave just within his eye line. He had to stop this. Didn't he?  


“It's improper,” he muttered, not knowing if he said it more to convince himself or her.  


“When have we ever been proper?” she scoffed. She brought her hands to his head and scratched at his scalp, not too hard but not softly, either, as if she was trying to compel him to continue, which he hardly needed convincing.  


“Emma,” he sighed, closing his eyes, both because her touch made him feel so good but also to keep the sight of her softness at bay.  


Just as he was calming, as his breathing was beginning to even out—just when he thought that maybe if he extricated himself from their compromising position—Emma in his lap and wrapped around him, her fingers still plunged in his hair—the damned vixen leaned down and kissed just beneath his ear.  


“One of us is going to have to sleep on the floor, because if we share this bed one more fucking time without so much as fondling something, I am going to lose my mind.” After speaking the words with a soft ferocity, she took his earlobe between her teeth and worried the flesh before releasing it then kissing the corner of his jaw.  


That did it. Next thing he knew she was on her back and his knees were between her thighs; he was kissing her and she was sighing happily, her fingers now at the nape of his neck, her breasts pressing against his chest. Perched on his elbows, he leaned to the left and brought his hand up, caressing her arm, feeling his way down until he clasped her hand with his.  


Emma's kisses grew more aggressive, and he briefly wondered where she'd learned to kiss like this, for he certainly hadn't been the one to show her. The thought made him pull back.  


“Have you done this before?”  


“What? No. Why, have you?” He felt his face flush hot and was afraid to see a look of censure in her eyes, but all he saw there when he looked down was amusement.  


“Why, Killian Jones. Are you a rake? A scoundrel? A seducer of innocents?” She squeezed his hand and laughed; he waited it out, knowing that she'd have her amusement whatever he said. Besides, she was wiggling so delightfully that he had no wish to make it stop.  


After a moment her laughter died down, and then he saw it—the slight uncertainty.  


“You have done this before, then.”  


“I--”  


“It's all right if you have. I never thought—that is, I _did_ think about it--”  


“Did you?” Well, wasn't _that_ interesting. “I've been thinking about it every day since I was about fourteen.”  


“With me?”  


“In the beginning, no. Recently? Perhaps.” She reached up with the hand not clasping his and pinched his ribs. “But, um.” Again, he felt heat blaze across his cheeks. “I've never—I've never done this. Almost, once. But I found my heart wasn't in it, even if my body was. I suppose it felt like a betrayal, and I simply couldn't go through with it, though my brother thinks I did.” His thoughts darkened then, remembering a tavern in a port of call and a lively, dark-haired lass sent over by his crew on the occasion of his birthday. “I'm meant to care for you, Lieutenant,” she'd said, confused when he simply handed her a sackful of coins and told her to make him sound like a legend when his brother asked.  


“You've been waiting for me,” Emma said, warm laughter in her voice, but no mockery. Perhaps even pleasure.  


“I—well. Yes. I wasn't going to live a chaste life, mind. I suppose I was simply...waiting to tell you how I felt before...proceeding with things. But now, well.” He grinned; he could hardly help it.  


The entire thing ought to have been awkward—he was, after all, between her legs, a situation he'd often dreamed of but never dared hope to see. But it was Emma, and it was Killian. They were not often awkward with one another, and he supposed it fitting that since they'd shared so many firsts that this would be yet another, more wonderful one to add to the tally.  


“I'm glad,” she whispered, pinching his side once more before reaching up to cup his cheek. She rubbed at the scruff along his jaw with her thumb before a thoughtful look crept along her face. “Although I suppose we'll both be terrible at it.”  


“I understand the mechanics fairly well.”  


“As do I. One does not befriend Lady Ruby without hearing all about it. Remember, we once saw her--”  


“And that stable boy--”  


“Oh, I was thinking of that governess--”  


“Either way.”  


“Yes.”  


“Emma.” He leaned down and kissed her softly. “I think we ought to go to bed.”  


“I thought that was the idea.”  


“No,” he laughed. “Sleep.”  


“Mm, no.” She lifted her hand, the one clasping his—and brought it around until her palm rested on the back of it, moving the both of their hands up while curling her arm over his. She met his eye and lifted her brow before placing his hand right on her breast; her eyes widened and she gasped at the contact. He gasped as well, for he could feel the hard jut of her nipple in his palm, and his body stiffened accordingly.  


“Emma,” he moaned somewhat desperately, knowing he was on the brink of giving in, diving back down to capture her lips once again. He did not think he would ever get enough of kissing her, and then after a fashion, he did not think much at all.  


Her soft gasps nearly did him in; he had to keep chanting lines from the naval handbook to himself over and over, wanting to bring her pleasure but not quite knowing what to do. He'd heard things over the years, of course, and it might have been terrible were it anyone else, but it was Emma, and it was Killian. Nothing about it was awkward. More like discovery and revelation.  


When he lifted away her night rail, he thought he could die and that might sit just fine with him.  


“You are--”  


“I know,” she grinned, then she nodded once. “Now you.” He didn't need to be told twice; quickly as he was able, he removed his clothing and settled over her, almost afraid to touch the creamy skin for fear it would all be over before it began.  


But then she pulled him to her and it was almost too much, the feeling of the woman he loved beneath him, writhing around, her hands everywhere, her choked gasps as his mouth discovered new ways to speak against her flesh, her eyelids fluttering as she watched him fit his lips over the tip of first one breast then the other, his hand beginning a journey down. The way her legs parted for him, the soft wetness he encountered, his fingers gentle even as they wished to feel and ravish and take.  


When she began to toss her head around, her legs trembling, her inner muscles clenching around him, he knew he would not last much longer. Thankfully, her gasping and mewling turned to pleas--”please, oh, Killian, please,” and with his forehead pressed to hers he entered her, slowly at first, knowing there would be pain and she did gasp, but it was a nice gasp, a loud gasp, and her fingers pressed at his back and he went forward, feeling the sweet slide and it was Emma, he was so glad, he pushed deeper and she sighed happily, squeezing his flesh with her fingers and squeezing herself around him.  


It was over much too quickly, of course; he pulled away right after her soft cries and the intense fluttering around him slowed, and it was just in time, too. He spent on the sheet below them and felt glad he'd thought to do that. He knew he _ought_ to have felt guilty—he just took the virtue of the damned crown princess of Misthaven!--but he couldn't muster up the required shame. Not when she looked so soft and lovely, at least for one moment. As he collapsed on the bed beside her and leaned over to kiss her, she pulled back with a wicked grin on her face.  


“I do love you,” she murmured. Before he could reciprocate the sentiment, she let out a large yawn. Laughing, she covered her mouth with the back of her hand. “And I'll want to be doing _that_ again. It was—I'd no idea.” She kissed him sweetly then, and as he pulled her to his chest and kissed her temple, he couldn't stop grinning at the utter contentment he felt at such a perfect moment.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> see, i don't always end badly

**Author's Note:**

> i'm posting this here, and it's up on tumblr as well. come say hi, yell at me to finish it or whatever like everyone else does--i'm this-too-too-sullied-flesh.


End file.
